F  life' 
^^^*^^j 


IP  S.  MARDEN 


\  /  ^  .  -  - 


rropic    of  CaL-ncet        \ 


SAILING  SOUTH 


MORRO  CASTLE,  HAVANA 


SAILING  SOUTH 


BY 

PHILIP  SANFORD  MARDEN 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

(£bc  ftibetjritie  press  Cambribjje 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,   1921,  BY  PHILIP  S.   MARDEN 
ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


PREFACE 

IN  justice  alike  to  the  author  and  the  gentle 
reader  it  should  be  said  well  in  advance  that  the 
aim  of  this  book  is  diversion  rather  than  instruction. 
The  few  and  fleeting  glimpses  that  are  herein  re- 
corded cannot  qualify  one  as  an  expert  on  tropi- 
cal countries.  Only  the  most  superficial  effort  has 
been  made  to  purvey  useful  information,  historical 
or  otherwise.  The  chapters  which  follow  contain 
chiefly  the  personal  observations  incident  to  casual 
winter  cruising,  such  as  one  embodies  in  letters 
home ;  and  that  they  are  embodied  in  this  enduring 
form  is  possibly  not  to  be  justified  even  by  the  be- 
lief that  the  field  remains  thus  far  too  meagerly 
tilled.  Nevertheless  this  book  is  offered  in  the  hope 
that  innocent  enjoyment  may  be  afforded  to  such 
as  may  be  present  or  prospective  visitors  to  lands 
which  the  author  has  himself  found  delightful  and 
interesting  places  wherein  to  spend  a  brief  winter's 
holiday.  The  islands  and  countries  visited  are  few 
and  are  far  from  being  unfamiliar.  It  is  a  book  con- 
cerned exclusively  with  the  beaten  track.  But  if  it 
suffices  to  enliven  the  tedium  of  a  day  at  sea,  or  to 
awaken  pleasant  memories,  or  to  arouse  the  desire 


vi  PREFACE 

for  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  environs 
of  the  Caribbean,  it  will  not  have  been  written  in 
vain.  All  of  which  is  said,  not  by  way  of  apology, 
and  still  less  in  the  hope  of  disarming  criticism,  but 
solely  in  the  interests  of  honesty  and  in  the  desire  to 
forestall  misconception  as  to  the  scope  and  inten- 
tion of  the  book. 

PHILIP  SANFORD  MARDEN 


LOWELL,  MASS. 
August,  1920 


CONTENTS 

PART  ONE.    CUBA  AND  PANAMA 

I.  SAILING  SOUTH  3 

II.  AROUND  THE  CARIBBEAN  17 

III.  HAVANA  29 

IV.  PANAMA  AND  THE  CANAL  48 
V.  THE  ZONE  AND  THE  REPUBLIC  63 

VI.  A  PANAMANIAN  INTERLUDE  76 

VII.  IN  COSTA  RICA  90 

VIII.  SAN  Jos6  106 

PART  TWO.    PORTO  RICO 

IX.  PREPARING  FOR  PORTO  Rico  123 

X.  SAN  JUAN  140 

XI.  AN  ISLAND  CAPITAL  155 

XII.  MOTORING  IN  PORTO  Rico  177 

XIII.  SUGAR  190 

XIV.  FROM  PONCE  TO  ARECIBO  200 

PART  THREE.    JAMAICA 

XV.  KINGSTON  215 

XVI.  THE  ISLE  OF  SPRINGS  243 

XVII.  A  JAMAICAN  MOTOR  FLIGHT  256 

XVIII.  THE  NORTH  COAST  267 

XIX.  PORT  ANTONIO  279 

XX.  RAFTING  IN  JAMAICA  291 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

MORRO  CASTLE,  HAVANA  Frontispiece 

IN  CRISTOBAL  24 

O'REILLY  STREET,  HAVANA  38 

THE  CATHEDRAL,  HAVANA  42 

A  JUNGLE  RIVER,  PANAMA  52 

THE  ARMY  TRANSPORT   MOUNT  VERNON  IN  THE 
UPPER  CHAMBER,  MIRAFLORES  LOCKS 

THE  RUINS,  OLD  PANAMA 

WAYSIDE  COCKPIT,  PANAMA 

IN  THE  BANANA  COUNTRY 

IN  RURAL  COSTA  RICA 

A  CENTRAL  AMERICAN  STREET  GROUP 

COSTA  RICAN  BULLOCK  CARTS 

SAN  JUAN  HARBOR 

ANCIENT  SEA  WALL,  SAN  JUAN 

OVER  THE  ROOFS,  SAN  JUAN 

SIDE-HILL  STREET,  SAN  JUAN 

THE  MASSIVE  FORTIFICATIONS,  SAN  JUAN 

ON  THE  ROAD  TO  PONCE 

IN  THE  GARDENS  OF  THE  CASA  BLANCA 

THE  WAVING  PALMS  OF  JAMAICA 

NATIVE  HUT  NEAR  KINGSTON 


x  ILLUSTRATIONS 

OLD  CATHEDRAL  AT  SPANISH  TOWN,  JAMAICA  258 

OLD  CHURCH,  ANNOTTA  BAY,  JAMAICA  282 

VIEW  FROM  PORCH  OF  TITCHFIELD  HOTEL,  PORT 
ANTONIO  286 

MAPS 
CARIBBEAN  SEA  End  papers 

CANAL  ZONE  55 

PORTO  Rico  167 


PART  ONE 
CUBA  AND  PANAMA 


CHAPTER  I 
SAILING  SOUTH 

THOSE  whose  experience  of  the  sea  consists 
solely  in  voyaging  to  and  from  Europe  will 
find  sailing  south  decidedly  a  different,  and  in  many 
ways  a  more  impressive,  performance.  To  one's  sur- 
prise, the  undoubted  fact  of  the  earth's  sphericity, 
usually  taken  on  trust,  becomes  an  intimate  and 
interesting  reality. 

There  is  comparatively  little  realization  of  this 
fact  to  be  gleaned  from  a  mere  east-and-west  pas- 
sage —  always  under  familiar  stars  and  roughly 
in  the  same  general  climate.  One  might  pursue  a 
consistently  eastward  course  over  sea  and  land, 
from  New  York  to  New  York,  and  the  only  notable 
alterations  would  be  in  the  daily  gain  of  half  an 
hour  or  so  until  one  reached  home  again,  after  pass- 
ing that  mysterious  point  in  mid-Pacific  where  it 
is  always  either  day-before-yesterday  or  day-after- 
to-morrow  (I  have  never  been  quite  certain  which, 
but  know  at  least  that  it  is  never  at  that  point  what 
the  rest  of  the  world  regards  as  to-day).  The  heavens 
as  viewed  from  Naples  are  much  the  same  as  those 
observed  from  Boston,  Yokohama,  Petrograd,  and 


4  SAILING  SOUTH 

London.  It  is  sailing  south  that  suddenly  con- 
vinces you  of  the  terrestrial  rotundity  —  partly 
because  of  phenomena  in  the  heavens  above  and  no 
less  notably  because  of  climatic  changes  on  the 
earth  beneath. 

One  goes  down  over  the  rim  of  the  horizon  into 
different  seas  and  different  skies  —  so  rapidly  that 
the  changes  force  themselves  upon  even  the  most 
casual  notice.  Surely  the  Dipper  is  curiously  out  of 
place !  It  is  dipping  —  as  no  doubt  a  dipper  should ! 
As  for  that  star  low  in  the  south  and  just  above  the 
prow  —  surely  that  is  one  you  never  saw  before ! 
It  may  be  an  outpost  of  the  Southern  Cross!  Curi- 
osity as  to  the  Southern  Cross  is  almost  the  first 
symptom  of  the  acquisition  of  sea-legs  on  a  south- 
bound liner.  Passengers  seem  to  expect  it  to  dawn 
in  full  splendor  upon  them  about  the  second  night 
out.  Obliging  first-officers  usually  inform  you  that 
it  can  be  seen  if  you  care  to  come  on  deck  at  some 
outrageous  hour  like  two  in  the  morning  —  and  the 
few  who  act  upon  this  advice  will  invariably  report 
that  they  saw  this  famous,  but  much  overrated, 
constellation.  Whether  or  not  they  did  so  in  fact 
one  may  hardly  dispute,  since  dispute  in  such  a 
case  is  at  once  futile  and  unkind.  I  hasten  to  make 
confession  that  I  have  never  yet  seen  the  true 
Southern  Cross  and  doubt  that  many  of  the  thou- 


SAILING  SOUTH  5 

sands  who  claim  to  have  viewed  it  ever  really  saw 
it  without  going  much  farther  south  than  the  City 
of  Panama.  I  have  been  told  by  credible  persons 
that  in  any  case  it  is  a  disappointing  galaxy  —  not 
to  be  compared  with  either  the  Dipper  or  Orion  — 
which  owes  its  fame  largely  to  the  principle  of  omne 
ignotum. 

By  day,  it  is  the  abrupt  change  of  climate  that 
emphasizes  the  fact  of  the  earth's  globularity  — 
a  change  for  the  better,  due  to  the  swift  approach 
to  latitudes  where  the  sun  of  winter  is  more  nearly 
overhead  and  therefore  more  concentrated  in  effect. 
You  have  left  behind  a  miserable  and  half-frozen 
population,  dwelling  on  the  top  of  a  sadly  tilted 
planet  and  temporarily  well  out  of  the  sun's  path  — 
but  you  yourself  are  crawling  steadily  down  over 
the  face  of  the  terrestrial  ball  into  a  more  genial 
condition  of  things. 

Besides,  there  is  the  Gulf  Stream  —  a  much- 
maligned  current  of  warm  water,  often  derided  as 
a  myth  but  apparently  quite  seriously  regarded  by 
such  as  do  business  in  the  great  waters.  On  every 
passenger  craft  there  will  be  smoke-room  babble 
about  the  legendary  character  of  the  Gulf  Stream. 
Respectable  scientists  have  gravely  informed  me 
that  it  does  not  exist  at  all  —  that  some  ancient 
German  geographer  imagined  it  and  engraved  lines 


6  SAILING  SOUTH 

on  the  map  to  represent  it,  whence  all  the  world  has 
been  duped  into  accepting  it  as  a  reality.  My  own 
disposition  is  to  become  as  a  little  child  when  at  sea 
and  accept  all  its  myths  as  genuine  truth.  As  for 
the  Gulf  Stream,  I  really  don't  see  how  we  can  do 
without  it.  Very  possibly  its  effect  upon  the  climate 
of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  has  been  overstressed 
—  and  very  possibly  the  notion  that  it  alone  is  what 
makes  so  notorious  the  rough  passage  to  Bermuda 
is  an  exaggeration.  But  when  you  find  hourly  can- 
vas buckets  of  water  hauled  gravely  to  the  bridge 
and  see  thermometers  inserted  therein,  as  seriously 
as  if  the  ocean  were  a  fever  patient,  you  gather  that 
the  navigator  has  a  firm  belief  in  the  reality  of  the 
warm  current  that  pours  out  of  the  Florida  straits 
and  makes  its  way  uphill  toward  Newfoundland 
and  the  distant  North. 

If  you  make  the  voyage  from  New  York  to  Ha- 
vana, you  will  find  the  ship  kept  close  inshore  with 
the  idea  of  avoiding  as  far  as  may  be  the  opposing 
force  of  a  four-knot  current;  and  conversely  as  you 
sail  northward  again  you  will  observe  that  the  vessel 
is  kept  well  offshore  in  search  of  such  assistance  as 
the  favoring  stream  can  give.  Wherefore  it  seems 
both  safe  and  sane  to  accept  the  Gulf  Stream  as 
entirely  real  and  a  moderately  useful  provision  of  a 
wise  Creator. 


SAILING  SOUTH  7 

Setting,  as  this  current  does,  from  southwest 
to  northeast,  much  depends  upon  the  direction  of 
the  wind  when  it  comes  to  the  net  effect  upon  the 
surface  of  the  sea.  A  wind  blowing  with  the  current, 
if  it  be  not  in  itself  a  violent  breeze,  will  presumably 
insure  a  reasonably  smooth  passage.  A  wind  vehe- 
mently opposing  the  surface  current  of  the  waters 
will  infallibly  make  it  rough.  I  imagine  there  are 
such  things  as  mill-pond  passages  to  the  Bermudas, 
although  common  account  discredits  this. 

The  great  bugaboo  of  southern  sailing,  of  course, 
is  Hatteras.  The  very  name  has  a  raucous  sound 
suggestive  of  howling  gales  and  turbulent  seas. 
Most  of  us  have  dreaded  Hatteras  from  our  cradles. 
Hatteras  is  the  cape  formed  by  a  malignant  elbow 
thrust  into  the  Atlantic  by  the  otherwise  chival- 
rous State  of  North  Carolina.  I  suspect  that  it 
really  does  influence  the  weather  to  some  extent, 
whether  because  of  its  impulsion  of  the  Gulf  Stream, 
or  its  mysterious  influence  on  the  depths  of  air.  At 
all  events,  I  note  that  the  Government  commonly 
"orders  storm-warnings  displayed  from  Hatteras  to 
Eastport"  when  it  scents  trouble  brewing  among 
the  elements.  But  after  one  has  made  divers  voy- 
ages to  and  from  the  southern  ports  one  comes  to 
regard  Hatteras  as  a  somewhat  slandered  promon- 
tory, chiefly  because  one  may  conceivably  pass  that 


8  SAILING  SOUTH 

way  a  dozen  times  and  note  nothing  at  all  amiss 
in  the  conduct  of  the  weather.  The  notion  that  you 
are  bound  to  meet  with  a  storm  off  this  much- 
maligned  apex  of  our  southern  coast-line  may  be 
dismissed  as  nonsense.  You  may,  or  you  may 
not.  The  wise  traveler  goes  to  sea  and  takes  what 
comes. 

Cape  Hatteras,  by  the  way,  is  not  commonly 
visible  from  the  ships  that  go  southward  seeking. 
West  Indian  ports.  In  fact  after  you  leave  the  Jersey 
Highlands  you  will  not  see  land  again  for  some  time. 
If  you  are  making  for  Havana,  you  will  probably 
pick  up  the  Florida  shore  somewhere  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Cape  Carnaveral,  and  will,  for  the  sake  of 
avoiding  hostile  currents,  skirt  the  low-lying  coast 
of  Palm  Beach  so  closely  as  almost  to  imperil  the 
bathers  of  that  Lucullan  retreat.  If  you  are  bound 
for  Porto  Rico,  you  will  see  absolutely  no  land  of  any 
sort  or  kind  until  you  sight  the  lofty  mountains  that 
rise  behind  San  Juan.  If  Jamaica  be  your  goal,  you 
will  see  —  unless,  as  usually  happens  on  ships,  you 
pass  in  the  night  —  Watling's  Island,  which  Colum- 
bus more -piously  and  appropriately  christened  San 
Salvador;  and  following  that  you  will  be  treated  to  a 
near  view  of  sundry  other  outposts  of  the  Bahama 
group,  with  finally  a  near  view  of  Cape  Maisi  in 
Cuba.  Unusually  clear  weather  may  even  afford 


a  distant  prospect  of  Haiti.  The  Bermudas  you  will 
not  see  at  all,  unless  you  are  going  thither. 

Cape  Hatteras,  then,  you  must  take  on  faith. 
Havana  steamers  commonly  pass  close  to  a  light- 
ship that  lies  a  long  way  east  of  the  mainland ;  but  of 
the  mainland  itself  you  are  made  aware  only  in  case 
it  happens  to  be  one  of  Hatteras's  moments  for  a 
meteorologic  tantrum.  It  may  be  added  also,  for  the 
reassurance  of  the  timorous,  that  stormy  times  in 
these  latitudes  have  a  comfortable  habit  of  ending 
as  suddenly  as  they  begin  —  although  this  may  not 
be  relied  upon  as  the  invariable  rule.  A  blow  that 
has  kept  an  entire  ship's  company  below  at  break- 
fast may  abate  and  bring  all  hands  merrily  to  dinner. 

In  any  case  the  third  day  ought  to  find  people 
appearing  in  their  summer  gear.  If  three  degrees  of 
latitude  will,  as  some  wise  man  once  remarked, 
"reverse  all  jurisprudence,"  they  will  work  even 
greater  wonders  with  the  winter  climate.  New  York, 
choked  with  snow,  only  increases  the  miracle  of  that 
third  day  —  or  at  all  events  the  fourth  —  when  one 
is  sailing  a  summer  sea  near  shores  begirt  with  palm, 
through  school  upon  school  of  flying  fish.  The 
flannels  and  Palm  Beach  suits  which  seemed  such 
absurdities  in  New  York  are  absurdities  no  longer. 

As  for  the  flying  fish,  they  are  among  the  tradi- 
tional allurements  of  the  southern  voyage.  One  is 


io  SAILING  SOUTH 

amazed  to  find  them  so  tiny,  so  swallow-like,  so 
incredibly  numerous,  so  capable  of  sustained  flight. 
Blase  travelers  will  ask  you  to  believe  that  you  will 
tire  of  them  in  a  little  time  —  but  this  is  a  thumping 
untruth.  You  never  really  tire  of  flying  fish.  You  be- 
come accustomed  to  them;  but  you  will  blister  the 
back  of  your  devoted  neck  standing  in  the  prow  to 
see  the  diminutive  creatures  go  skimming  away 
across  the  waves  from  the  intrusion  of  the  onrushing 
stem,  scales  gleaming  in  the  sun,  and  grace  un- 
speakable in  every  movement  which  so  strongly 
recalls  the  skipping  stones  of  one's  childhood.  By 
comparison  with  the  flying  fish,  the  floating  sea- 
weeds, once  so  comforting  to  Columbus  and  his 
crews,  lack  power  to  enthrall.  They  will  undoubt- 
edly have  the  effect,  however,  of  producing  much 
energetic  speculation  as  to  the  Sargasso  Sea  —  an- 
other of  those  comfortable  sea  mysteries  so  alluring 
to  the  imaginations  of  the  First  Cabin,  which  has 
heard  of  the  Sargasso  Sea  without  being  very  sure 
where  it  is,  and  of  the  Spanish  Main  without  being 
altogether  certain  of  the  location  of  that.  In  sailing 
south  you  are  venturing  upon  a  romantic  belt  of 
our  earth,  where  Pieces  of  Eight  are  vaguely  sup- 
posed to  be  the  ruling  currency,  and  where  a  mul- 
titude of  half-forgotten  traditions  stimulate  the 
imagination  to  flights  of  fancy  which  often  break 


SAILING  SOUTH  n 

every  established  record  for  altitude  among  a  prop- 
erly stimulated  smoke-room  gathering. 

By  the  fifth  day  out  it  is  high  time  to  begin  dis- 
cussions as  to  the  trade  winds,  since  the  compara- 
tively steady  northeast  breeze  is  due  to  be  en- 
countered at  this  juncture  and  is  destined  to  become 
a  daily  familiar  while  you  remain  in  the  northerly 
verges  of  the  torrid  zone.  This  in  its  turn  is  certain 
to  be  productive  of  much  pseudo-science  among  the 
deck-chairs  —  trade  winds,  their  cause  and  cure, 
periodicity,  perpetuity,  effect  upon  marine  and 
terrestrial  weather,  rainy  seasons,  and  so  on,  af- 
fording virtually  unlimited  material  for  polite  con- 
versation among  holiday-makers,  to  whom  the 
tropics  are  an  uncharted  and  fascinating  domain. 
It  will  suffice  here  to  remark  that  the  northeast 
trade  wind  is  no  myth,  is  practically  regular  in  its 
operation  throughout  the  year,  is  prone  to  blow 
chiefly  by  day,  and  tends  to  make  the  Caribbean  a 
bumpy  but  not  commonly  an  unpleasant  sea. 

Like  so  many  other  things,  steamship  lines  to  the 
tropics  have  suffered  from  the  effects  of  the  war 
and  may  not  at  present  be  said  to  be  in  a  normal 
condition  of  excellence.  A  few  years  ought  to  cure 
that,  however.  Diversion  of  the  wonted  craft  to 
the  purposes  of  transport  for  men  and  materials  has 
wrought  changes  which  the  incessant  rush  of  post- 


12  SAILING  SOUTH 

war  business  has  left  no  opportunity  to  repair. 
Now  and  again  wandering  U-boats  took  toll  even 
on  our  coasts,  and  at  least  one  of  the  Porto  Rico 
liners  was  sent  to  the  bottom  by  a  torpedo  in  the 
full  tide  of  the  submarine  destruction.  Neverthe- 
less one  may  be  reasonably  comfortable  on  a  south- 
ern cruise,  in  almost  any  season,  by  the  regular 
ships;  and  of  course  the  special  cruises  during  the 
winter  months  offer  luxury  surpassing  what  one 
looks  for  in  a  regular  voyage  devoted  chiefly  to 
trading  in  bananas  and  other  tropical  commodities. 
But  the  effects  of  the  war  were  not  altogether 
deleterious.  For  one  thing,  Europe  being  closed  to 
the  tourist,  the  tropics  suddenly  revealed  possibili- 
ties for  such  as  regard  the  ideal  vacation  to  be  that 
which  involves  a  sea  voyage.  The  dimly  appre- 
ciated attractions  of  the  warm  countries  have  be- 
come a  vivid  reality  to  thousands,  and  the  ultimate 
effect  beyond  question  will  be  a  great  advance  both 
in  the  means  of  transport  and  in  the  excellence  of 
the  accommodations  ashore.  Even  to-day  there  is 
an  agreeable  primitiveness  in  the  latter,  once  you 
get  away  from  the  principal  centers  of  population 
in  tropic  islands  or  on  the  mainland  of  Central 
America ;  but  in  such  considerable  cities  as  Havana, 
San  Juan,  Kingston,  Port  Antonio,  and  the  two 
main  stations  of  the  Canal  Zone,  there  are  already 


SAILING  SOUTH  13 

hotels  meriting  the  description  "luxurious"  and 
even  the  less-frequented  sites  afford  very  tolerable 
comfort.  The  effect  of  certain  other  novel  elements, 
such  as  the  recent  establishment  of  American  pro- 
hibition, need  hardly  be  stressed.  In  that  direction 
a  variety  of  choice  is  possible  —  between  such  cities 
as  Havana,  where  gayety  rules  supreme,  and  where 
the  concomitants  of  a  lively  life  are  most  in  evi- 
dence, and  such  towns  as  San  Juan  or  those  of  the 
Zone,  which  adhere  to  the  austere  American  habit 
now  so  much  in  vogue. 

There  are  those  who  claim  that  at  any  season, 
even  the  northern  midsummer,  a  journey  to  the 
tropics  is  both  comfortable  and  rewarding.  The 
wiser  custom,  however,  confines  the  pleasure- 
seeker  to  the  six  months  between  November  and 
May.  It  is  entirely  true  that  in  the  torrid  zone  the 
temperature  varies  but  little  with  the  seasons,  if 
you  trust  entirely  to  the  thermometer.  But  there 
are  certain  other  elements  to  be  borne  in  mind, 
such  as  the  brief  intermissions  in  the  blowing  of  the 
trade  winds,  the  concentrated  seasons  of  humidity 
in  which  rain  is  the  daily  occurrence,  and  above  all 
the  fact  that  one  going  south  in  our  own  summer- 
time experiences  no  reactions  due  to  climatic  dif- 
ferences between  the  tropics  and  home.  Our  north- 
ern summer,  indeed,  is  often  hotter — for  a  very 


14  SAILING  SOUTH 

brief  period  —  than  the  tropic  summer.  Alaska 
may  have  isolated  days  of  greater  heat  than  Kings- 
ton or  Colon.  The  sensible  time  to  go  to  the  warm 
areas  of  the  earth  is  when  the  glass  rules  around 
zero  in  New  England  and  New  York.  To  exchange 
cold  for  heat  is  wisdom.  To  voyage  from  one  hot 
climate  to  another  which,  to  say  the  least,  will  not 
be  much  cooler,  is  folly. 

The  Antilles,  one  must  always  remember,  are  not 
by  any  means  an  equatorial  group  of  islands.  Even 
Panama  lies  some  nine  degrees  north  of  our  earth's 
capacious  waist-line,  and  Havana  is  only  about 
one  hundred  miles  south  of  Florida;  so  that  there 
is  still  room  for  some  solar  variations  in  that 
region,  even  when  one  has  passed  below  the  Tropic 
of  Cancer,  although  their  effect  upon  the  temper- 
ature is  not  greatly  marked.  It  is  always  warm 
there  —  hot,  in  fact  —  save  in  the  highlands,  which 
are  by  contrast  reasonably  cool.  It  is  usually  cool 
enough  for  comfort,  even  on  the  coasts,  by  night. 
Veracious  young  men,  long  resident  in  Panama, 
have  told  me  that  they  invariably  sought  a  light 
blanket  for  covering  before  morning  throughout 
the  year,  thanks  to  the  steadiness  of  the  nocturnal 
breeze.  Admittedly,  however,  you  would  not  freeze 
without  one  —  but  what  would  you?  The  object  in 
going  to  the  tropics  is  to  find  tropical  conditions; 


SAILING  SOUTH  15 

and  in  midwinter  such  conditions  are  paradisiacal 
to  all  but  those  hardy  souls  who  must  choose  Jan- 
uary for  their  expeditions  into  Labrador  and  the 
region  of  Hudson's  Bay. 

By  the  expenditure  of  six  days  in  time  and  a 
reasonable  amount  of  money  it  is  wholly  possible  to 
exchange  the  extreme  rigors  of  the  northern  winter 
for  the  delights  of  a  land  where  it  is  always  a  sort 
of  summer  afternoon,  and  where  the  conditions  of 
living  are  so  different  as  to  produce  that  desirable 
effect  upon  habits,  customs,  architecture,  language, 
and  complexion  which  forms  the  great  attraction 
in  going  anywhere  "abroad."  To  get  away  from 
home  for  a  space  —  away  from  home  ways  of  doing 
things,  home  standards,  home  speech,  home  people 
—  is  of  the  essence  of  travel  for  many  of  us  and  is 
what  chiefly  militates  against  that  otherwise  meri- 
torious slogan  "See  America  first."  Havana  is  the 
most  completely  "foreign"  city  that  could  be  con- 
ceived —  and  yet  it  lies  only  a  few  hours'  steaming 
from  the  southern  end  of  the  Key  West  viaduct. 
Cuba,  Porto  Rico,  and  the  countries  of  Central 
America  are  outposts  of  ancient  Spain,  where 
Spanish  is  still  a  very  desirable  language  to  have 
at  one 's  command.  The  fact  of  its  long  possession 
by  England  is  the  chief  handicap  against  Jamaica 
and  the  other  scattered  British  possessions  of  the 


16  SAILING  SOUTH 

Caribbean,  because,  while  otherwise  among  the 
loveliest  of  all  earthly  paradises,  such  do  away  with 
the  illusion  of  foreignness,  both  in  speech  and  in- 
stitutions, which  is  so  ardently  coveted  by  the 
sight-seeing  American. 

One  obsessed  by  the  passion  for  imparting  help- 
ful hints  to  the  inexperienced  is  sorely  tempted  to 
embellish  an  introduction  like  this  with  needless 
advice.  Let  it  be  said  only  that  in  a  country  where 
it  is  usually  about  90°  in  the  shade  at  noon  and  some- 
thing over  60°  at  night,  and  where  in  addition  it 
very  frequently  pours  with  rain,  common  sense 
should  afford  the  safest  guide  as  to  the  equipment 
of  the  transitory  guest.  All  the  lightest  clothing 
you  can  find,  a  gossamer  raincoat,  and  an  umbrella 
are  clearly  indicated,  as  the  doctors  say.  The  straw 
hat  of  the  tropics  is  abundant  and  inexpensive  — 
so  that  might  as  well  be  purchased  on  arrival. 

Meantime,  do  not  expect  too  much  —  because 
you  cannot! 


CHAPTER  II 
AROUND  THE  CARIBBEAN 

PROBABLY  every  one  has  in  his  or  her  head  a 
tolerably  vague  map  of  such  portions  of  the 
earth  as  are  reasonably  familiar  —  "tolerably 
vague"  being  said  with  reason  and  by  design.  By 
the  light  of  this  mental  atlas  one  has  an  indefinite 
sense  of  geography  as  a  sort  of  glittering  generality, 
with  certain  bench-marks  to  which  dependable 
reference  may  be  made,  but  with  very  little  else 
that  is  accurate  behind  it. 

Therefore  it  is  likely  that  every  one  visualizes 
the  Antilles  as  a  roughly  semi-circular  group  of 
islands,  mostly  small  and  apparently  lying  in  close 
proximity  to  one  another,  their  line  extending  from 
the  toe  of  Florida  down  to  the  huge  shoulder  of  the 
South  American  continent  and  sufficing  to  contain 
the  body  of  water  known  to  all  mankind  as  the 
Caribbean  Sea.  The  notable  regularity  of  this 
group  in  the  matter  of  curvature  and  alignment 
and  the  fact  that,  together  with  the  peninsula  of 
Yucatan  and  the  long  curve  of  the  Central  Ameri- 
can mainland,  a  fairly  symmetrical  ellipse  is  pro 
duced  on  the  charts,  must  stamp  the  image  on  even 
the  most  casual  observer. 


i8  SAILING  SOUTH 

The  ordinary  recollection  will  instantly  place 
Cuba  at  the  upper  end  of  this  curving  archipelago, 
partly  because  it  is  the  largest  of  the  entire  group, 
partly  because  it  lies  nearest  us,  and  more  especially, 
perhaps,  because  certain  events  in  1898  forced  us 
to  take  a  direct  personal  cognizance  of  this  great 
but  previously  little  considered  island.  I  venture 
the  guess,  however,  that  at  this  point  the  average 
man's  knowledge  ceases  to  be  definite.  Until  one 
ventures  into  the  locality  and  is  compelled  to  learn 
a  little  more  clearly  just  where  Haiti  and  Porto 
Rico  are,  their  exact  locus  is  but  dimly  sensed. 
And  as  for  such  fascinating  names  as  Trinidad, 
Barbados,  Guadeloupe,  Dominica,  Tobago,  Martin- 
ique —  well,  they  are  names  and  naught  else.  Not 
many  could  take  a  blank  map  of  the  West  Indies 
and  write  in  the  names  of  the  various  islands  in 
the  so-called  "Windward"  and  "Leeward"  groups 
with  any  certainty.  Most  of  us  could  identify  the 
few  that  are  large  enough  to  have  distinctive  shapes ; 
but  on  any  ordinary  atlas  the  vast  majority  of  the 
islets  are  mere  dots,  signifying  nothing.  No  doubt 
upon  more  intimate  association  the  mystery  van- 
ishes. It  takes  a  very  meager  acquaintance  with 
tropic  travel  to  isolate  and  identify  Jamaica  as  the 
errant  brother  —  the  island  that  has  somehow  got 
out  of  line  and  wandered  off  into  the  Caribbean 


AROUND  THE  CARIBBEAN  19 

south  of  Cuba,  aloof  from  the  others  and  giving  the 
general  effect  of  being  just  a  trifle  superior.  The 
rest  simply  sweep  in  one  gigantic  curve  from  the 
northern  to  the  southern  continent  —  evidently  a 
long,  submerged  mountain  range  logically  corre- 
lated, the  peaks  being  the  several  islands,  but  all 
remote  enough  from  the  everyday  concerns  of  men 
to  be  nameless  each. 

The  recent  acquisition  of  the  several  small 
islands  of  the  Virgin  group,  which  our  country 
bought  from  Denmark  within  a  very  brief  space  of 
time,  has  begun  somewhat  to  reduce  the  mystery. 
Many,  if  not  most  of  us,  now  place  them  without 
effort  as  lying  next  east  of  Porto  Rico,  and  with  the 
increasing  vogue  of  southern  sailing  it  is  wholly 
probable  that  they  will  become  goals  of  visitation. 
Their  various  names,  referring  to  certain  saints  of 
high  repute,  are  dimly  recalled  —  St.  Thomas  espe- 
cially. But  aside  from  the  fact  that  they  are  islands 
famous  for  bay  rum  and  tidal  waves,  the  ordinary 
American  still  pays  them  too  little  heed.  Martin- 
ique achieved  a  transitory  celebrity  not  many  years 
ago  by  reason  of  a  fearful  volcanic  eruption.  Trini- 
dad, lying  far  to  the  south,  seems  to  be  suggestive 
of  asphaltic  pavement.  The  rest  connote  noth- 
ing in  particular  save  the  vague  notion  of  waving 
palms,  slothful  negroes,  odd  tropical  fruits,  and 


20  SAILING  SOUTH 

early  venturings  on  the  part  of  buccaneers  from 
Spain. 

The  designations  of  the  Windward  and  Leeward 
groups  will  hazily  suggest  that  they  lie  somehow 
with  reference  to  prevailing  winds  —  but  even  after 
you  have  gone  there  the  exact  reason  escapes  you. 
The  wind  certainly  does  "prevail"  with  a  vengeance 
—  a  stiff  northeast  breeze  which  must  necessarily 
have  its  counterpart  somewhere.  But  the  leeward 
islands  seem  distressingly  windward  ones  if  you 
view  them  from  the  right  angle. 

It  is  not  the  intent  of  this  book  to  deal  with  the 
minor  members  of  the  Antillean  archipelago.  Let 
us  be  content,  like  George  Sampson  on  a  famous 
occasion,  to  "know  that  they  are  there"  and  con- 
tinue to  know  them  vaguely  as  the  huge  natural 
breakwater  enclosing  the  Caribbean  Sea  —  a  break- 
water which  does  not  make  the  Caribbean  a  shel- 
tered sheet  of  water  by  any  means,  but  on  the  con- 
trary a  distinctly  bumpy  and  usually  a  trying  one 
to  such  as  experience  disquiet  when  they  go  down 
to  the  sea  in  ships.  One  cannot  expect  aught  else  of 
a  sea  where  the  wind  blows  day  in  and  day  out 
from  the  same  direction  with  an  intensity  that  is 
reasonably  constant.  After  all  it  is  the  trade  wind 
that  makes  the  tropical  islands  tolerable  places  of 
resort.  Without  it,  they  would  be  wretchedly  hot, 


AROUND  THE  CARIBBEAN  21 

winter  and  summer  alike.  With  it,  they  have  their 
allurements.  The  northernmost  ones — Cuba,  Haiti, 
and  Porto  Rico  —  are  places  of  delight  at  the  proper 
seasons  —  not  too  tropical,  but  just  tropical  enough. 
The  shape  of  Cuba,  the  greatest  of  them  all, 
somehow  suggests,  and  not  inappropriately,  a  cor- 
nucopia. Haiti  seems  rather  like  the  head  of  a 
weary  old  man,  yawning  capaciously  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  setting  sun.  Porto  Rico  invariably  re- 
minds me,  with  its  curiously  regular  outline,  of  our 
old-fashioned  pastime  of  trying  to  draw  a  pig  with 
one's  eyes  shut.  Jamaica  is  sufficiently  like  unto  it 
to  be  its  twin.  And  yet,  as  you  go  from  one  island 
to  another,  you  will  probably  be  struck  by  the  fact 
that  islands  so  near  allied  in  point  of  geography  are 
arrestingly  different  —  different  in  vegetation,  dif- 
ferent in  atmosphere,  above  all  different  in  people. 
The  latter,  however,  is  a  natural  consequence  of 
history.  Jamaica  has  been  British  ever  since  Crom- 
well. Cuba  was  Spanish  down  to  a  quarter-century 
ago  and  probably  will  continue  Spanish  throughout 
all  time.  Haiti  and  Santo  Domingo  —  none  of  us 
can  say  where  the  one  leaves  off  and  the  other  be- 
gins on  their  common  insularity  —  seem  to  be  in- 
curably negroid.  Porto  Rico  manfully  strives  to  be 
American,  but  is  as  Spanish  as  a  tortilla  still.  Cuba, 
in  a  proper  wind,  can  be  bleak  and  almost  cold ;  for 


22  SAILING  SOUTH 

outwardly  Cuba  is  the  least  tropical  to  the  inquiring 
eye  of  the  tourist. 

It  is  much  the  same,  I  fear,  on  the  mainland  side 
of  the  Caribbean.  We  all  know  very  well  where 
Mexico  is  —  almost  too  well,  perhaps.  But  what 
happens  when  you  get  below  Mexico?  Can  you 
bound  the  various  free  and  independent  countries 
loosely  known  in  popular  speech  and  in  the  public 
prints  as  the  "Latin- American  republics"?  The 
names  you  probably  know.  The  exact  order  in 
which  they  come  and  the  relations  which  the  several 
republics  bear  to  one  another  you  most  probably 
do  not  know  with  anything  like  certainty.  The 
reason  is  presumably  that  it  has  n't  interested  you 
to  make  this  knowledge  your  own,  despite  the  ef- 
forts of  zealous  persons  headed  by  the  Honorable 
John  Barrett  during  many  years  to  create  an 
entente  cordiale  between  the  United  States  and  the 
numerous  states  to  which  we  stand,  whether  they 
like  it  or  not,  in  loco  parentis.  Not  many  of  us  are 
aware  of  the  situation  or  general  shape  of,  say, 
Salvador,  or  Honduras.  The  names  are  apt  to 
connote  such  incongruities  as  earthquakes,  ma- 
hogany, and  revolutions. 

It  will  not  be  ever  thus,  but  it  is  so  now.  To 
adopt  the  frequent  phrase  of  politicians  and  cham- 
bers of  commerce,  these  Latin-American  countries 


AROUND  THE  CARIBBEAN  23 

"have  a  future  before  them."  For  the  moment  they 
are  not  quite  in  the  way  of  realizing  it,  being  largely 
undeveloped,  ill-provided  with  roads,  almost  un- 
provided with  rail  transport,  and  altogether  too 
abundantly  equipped  with  the  regnant  spirit  of 
revolt.  But  the  materials  of  a  future  are  there, 
prepared,  no  doubt,  from  the  beginning  of  the  world. 
Deep  in  the  jungle  lie  ruins  that  indicate  the  pos- 
session of  a  monumental  past,  as  well,  suggesting 
infinite  speculations  as  to  the  ancient  course  of 
empire.  Archaeology  has  a  stake  in  the  Latin- Amer- 
icas as  surely  as  have  commerce  and  trade.  But 
one  has  first  to  subdue  nature,  overcome  the  jungle, 
triumph  over  the  Latin  temperament  —  and  all 
those  things  are  hard. 

Nevertheless  they  are  not  impossibilities.  By 
dint  of  cutting  a  Gordian  knot  with  a  not  too  lovely 
blow,  and  by  the  exercise  of  ingenuity  in  sanitary 
engineering,  Panama  has  been  put  distinctly  on  the 
map.  Those  who  remember  the  hell-hole  that  was 
once  Aspinwall  must  marvel  at  the  health  and 
prosperity  of  Cristobal  and  Colon.  But  in  that  case 
the  need  of  the  canal  was  the  incentive,  and  similar 
incentives  have  not  arisen  farther  north.  The  con- 
quest of  other  localities  has  been  left  to  merchant 
adventurers  in  quest  of  bananas,  lumber,  and 
minerals,  or  to  railroad  concessionnaires  hampered 


24  SAILING  SOUTH 

now  and  again  by  changing  political  fortunes  in  the 
countries  granting  the  concession.  Panama,  much 
to  the  disquiet  of  the  great  and  friendly  nation  of 
Colombia,  became  an  affair  of  national  magnitude; 
and  the  miracle  that  happened  there,  despite  cer- 
tain qualms  as  to  the  manner  of  its  doing,  has  prob- 
ably impressed  every  American  who  has  visited  the 
Isthmus  with  an  entirely  new  idea  of  the  power  and 
resourcefulness  of  his  own  countrymen.  It  is  not 
the  purpose  of  the  present  chapter  to  reopen  the 
vexed  questions  that  beset  the  acquisition  of  title 
to  the  Canal  Zone  and  the  separation  of  Panama 
from  its  parent  country,  or  to  argue  the  possible 
proposition  of  a  right  of  international  eminent  do- 
main. Progress  sometimes  has  to  be  made  at  the 
expense  of  scruple;  is  usually  cruel  in  raw  nature, 
and  not  infrequently  is  so  in  art. 

We  have  come  thus  far,  then,  that  there  lies  to 
the  south  of  us  by  less  than  a  week's  steaming  a 
great  sea  enclosed  between  lands  whereof  we  are 
unpardonably  ignorant;  a  sea  that  breathes  ro- 
mance and  lands  the  richness  of  which  we  are  but 
dimly  aware.  Assuming  as  we  have  for  a  century 
or  more  the  sole  guardianship  of  this  domain  by 
sea  and  land,  we  are  disgracefully  ignorant  of  our 
wards.  We  are  not  trusted  by  them.  And  what  is 
true  of  the  restricted  area  known  as  Central  Amer- 


AROUND  THE  CARIBBEAN  25 

ica  is  no  less  true  of  the  gigantic  continent  that 
opens  farther  south  to  rival  in  immensity  and  possi- 
bilities that  which  we  and  the  Canadians  have  made 
our  own.  A  beginning,  looking  toward  better  under- 
standings and  a  livelier  interest,  has  been  made  in 
the  incomparable  Pan-American  palace,  which  is 
perhaps  the  finest  modern  building  in  Washington. 
But  the  most  promising  way  of  all  to  cement  alli- 
ances and  friendly  intercourse  is  to  go  and  see;  for 
better  is  the  sight  of  the  eyes  than  the  wandering 
of  the  desire. 

It  should  be  understood  first  of  all  that  the  people 
of  the  Latin-Americas  whenever  prosperity  permits 
seek  either  a  European  or  American  education ;  that 
the  cities,  what  few  there  are,  present  attractions 
not  to  be  despised;  and  above  all  that  those  inhab- 
iting the  Latin-Americas  are  the  direct  inheritors  of 
an  ancient  Spanish  civilization,  whereof  the  ways 
are  not  our  ways,  neither  the  thoughts  our  thoughts. 
It  is  necessary  that  we  Americans  cultivate  a  cer- 
tain adaptability,  to  which  we  seem  but  little  prone, 
as  the  first  step  toward  greater  intimacy,  and  it 
follows  that  by  no  means  all  the  work  is  to  be  done 
abroad.  A  measure,  and  an  important  measure,  is 
to  be  done  at  home.  Perhaps  the  first  essential  is  a 
broadened  knowledge,  but  certainly  the  second  is 
enlighted  patience.  Our  country  is  great,  and  it  is 


26  SAILING  SOUTH 

apparently  too  easy  to  awaken  in  the  Latin  breast 
a  fear  that  we  might  turn  out  to  be  an  overgrown 
bully.  The  liberation  of  Cuba  has  not  altogether 
sufficed  to  offset  Panama,  and  it  is  not  yet  revealed 
what  Mexico  has  in  store. 

Five  years  of  war  have  done  much  to  turn  American 
interest  in  the  direction  of  the  Central  American 
states,  adding  themselves  to  the  lure  of  the  great 
Canal.  As  a  result  many  thousand  of  our  people  who 
formerly  made  holiday  in  Europe  have  during  those 
five  years  discovered  anew  the  sites  first  exploited  by 
Columbus.  Havana,  San  Juan,  the  Zone,  and  Costa 
Rica  especially  have  suddenly  become  more  familiar 
ground  to  many  who  formerly  lavished  their  atten- 
tion on  the  other  hemisphere.  It  has  been  discovered 
that  these  hot  countries  have  their  lure  and  that 
there  is  some  practical  geography  to  be  studied 
nearer  home.  Some  history  also,  for  it  seems  true 
that  we  have  all  been  taking  Columbus  and  the 
early  Spaniards  rather  too  much  for  granted.  This 
was  their  domain,  the  western  terminus  of  the  Silver 
Road.  And  while  the  vestiges  of  the  early  days  are 
faint  and  often  hard  to  find,  many  lie  half  buried 
in  the  forests,  and  the  descendants  of  stout  Cortez 
are  all  about.  All  this,  however,  relates  to  yesterday, 
comparatively  speaking,  since  even  Columbus  came 
a  scant  four  centuries  ago.  The  really  intriguing 


AROUND  THE  CARIBBEAN  27 

thing  is  the  civilization  which  this  portion  of  the 
world  must  have  known  in  the  unguessed  ages  be- 
fore the  world-seeking  Genoese  pushed  his  way 
overseas  to  the  false  Cathay.  Evidently  there  was 
something  there  —  and  yet  what  do  we  know  of  it, 
behind  1492?  Our  earliest  Egyptian  date  is  some- 
thing more  than  4000  B.C.,  and  the  world  is  reason- 
ably familiar  with  recorded  history  in  that  quarter 
since,  say,  the  year  2500  before  our  Era.  It  is  the 
Americas  that  are  the  real  terra  incognita,  of  whose 
past  we  have  but  the  faintest  glimmerings  of  knowl- 
edge. Aztec,  Toltec,  and  Inca  are  names  that  recur 
from  that  far  time  when  we  were  in  school.  So  far  as 
our  own  hemisphere  is  concerned  we  know  less  of  its 
ninth  century  A.D.  than  we  know  of  Egypt's  nine- 
teenth century  before  Christ.  Yet  there  are  monu- 
ments in  Mexico  and  in  Guatemala  indicative  of  a 
curious  mixture  of  civilization  and  barbarism  which 
may  one  day  engross  attention  of  American  school- 
children —  and  add,  alas,  to  the  discouraging  mass 
of  material  of  which  youth  must  learn ! 

However,  all  this  is  nothing  that  need  hold  us  now. 
No  one  who  fares  southward  on  any  ordinary  cruise 
is  at  all  likely  to  see  anything  of  the  ancient  civiliza- 
tion, and  will  perceive  but  few  evidences  of  the 
•Spanish  era.  An  ancient  bridge  in  the  jungle,  a  bit 
of  roadway  once  traversed  by  ore-bearing  carts,  a 


28  SAILING  SOUTH 

moss-grown  cathedral  here  and  there,  numerous 
islands  and  "keys"  where  Columbus  is  credited 
either  with  having  beached  his  ships  for  cleaning,  or 
with  having  paused  for  water,  will  be  all  that  recall 
the  brave  days  of  Ferdinand  and  the  wide-ruling 
Philips.  One's  present  concern  is  with  bananas, 
cocoanuts,  copra,  logwood,  and  the  score  of  other 
native  products  which  give  the  steamer  lines  their 
excuse  for  being.  Now  as  of  old  it  is  an  industrial 
conquest;  and  that  conquest,  while  not  yet  far 
advanced,  has  at  least  made  its  mark  indelibly  upon 
the  tropics  to  the  benefit  alike  of  conguistado  and 
conquistador. 


CHAPTER  III 
HAVANA 

THE  island  of  Cuba,  largest  and  richest  of  the 
Greater  Antilles,  variously  lauded  as  the  Pearl 
of  the  Antilles  and  the  Key  of  the  New  World,  lies 
almost  at  our  doors,  a  trifle  over  ninety  miles  from 
that  curious  Floridan  appendage  known  as  Key 
West,  which  Mr.  Flagler's  munificence  has  con- 
verted from  an  island  to  the  prouder  estate  of  a 
peninsula.  Whatever  may  have  been  true  of  the 
elder  days,  it  cannot  be  said  that  at  present  there  is 
any  pronounced  indifference  on  the  part  of  Ameri- 
cans to  Havana  —  largely,  one  greatly  fears,  be- 
cause of  reasons  not  unconnected  with  convivial 
cheer.  Havana,  which  has  known  many  vicissitudes, 
has  not  as  yet  embraced  the  stern  doctrines  origi- 
nally espoused  by  the  late  Neal  Dow.  She  has  sur- 
rendered nothing  of  her  Latin  heritage  save  only  the 
scourge  of  yellow  fever.  She  has  consented  to  clean 
up  and  to  stay  clean.  In  all  else  she  remains  what 
she  was  before  the  Spanish  War  —  a  handsome  town 
built  along  the  shore  of  a  landlocked  harbor  which 
has  few  rivals  in  the  world  and  no  superiors. 

In  fact  Cuba  rejoices  in  harbors  of  a  curiously 


30  SAILING  SOUTH 

safe  and  capacious  kind  along  practically  all  her 
coasts  —  and  her  coastline  is  no  inconsiderable 
affair,  being  well  over  two  thousand  miles  long  if  you 
count  the  numerous  indentations.  None  of  us, 
surely,  can  have  forgotten  the  long  and  narrow  inlet 
of  Santiago  in  which  Captain  Hobson  vainly  at- 
tempted to  imprison  Cervera's  fleet  by  sinking  a 
collier  across  the  channel  —  a  glorious  harbor  which 
has  several  fellows  along  the  southern  shore.  This 
fact,  coupled  with  the  development  of  railroad 
facilities  throughout  the  length  of  the  island  and  the 
steady  growth  of  good  roadways,  suffices  to  give 
practically  every  cultivable  portion  of  the  island  an 
easy  access  to  the  sea,  which  is  of  inestimable  ad- 
vantage in  the  marketing  of  the  products  of  the  soil. 
Cuba1  is  a  much  larger  island  than  one  commonly 

1  Cuba  by  the  most  recent  census  has  a  population  of  nearly  three 
million.  The  republic  is  divided  into  six  provinces  of  which  Havana  is 
at  once  the  smallest  in  size  and  the  largest  in  population.  The  gov- 
ernment vests  in  a  president  and  vice-president,  chosen  by  an  electoral 
college;  a  cabinet  of  nine  officers;  and  a  legislature  which  boasts 
twenty-four  senators  (four  from  each  province)  and  eighty-three 
representatives.  The  judges  of  the  supreme  and  subordinate  federal 
courts  are  named  by  the  president  subject  to  senatorial  confirmation. 
Cuba's  severance  from  Spain  began  with  the  opening  of  the  Spanish- 
American  War,  April  21,  1898,  and  her  independence  became  com- 
plete when  in  May,  1902,  the  American  occupation  ended  and  was 
succeeded  by  the  first  full  administration  of  the  Cuban  Republic. 
The  constitution,  however,  was  formally  adopted  February  21,  1901, 
and  an  appendix  was  added  in  June  of  the  same  year  embodying  the 
so-called  "  Platt  Amendment,"  consisting  of  eight  clauses  which  some- 
what restrict  Cuban  independence.  By  these  clauses  Cuba  agrees  not 


HAVANA  31 

realizes  and  its  position  is  likewise  but  little  under- 
stood. It  will  probably  surprise  one  who  has  given 
the  map  little  attention  to  be  told  that  the  eastern- 
most point  of  Cuba,  Cape  Maisi,  lies  directly  south 
of  New  York,  whereas  the  westernmost  cape  lies 
due  south  of  Cincinnati  —  and  it  is  further  sur- 
prising to  learn  that  the  extreme  length  of  the  island 
is  rather  more  than  seven  hundred  miles.  The  cheer- 
ful habits  of  our  geographers  are  responsible  for 
much  misconception  of  the  relative  sizes  of  things. 
Because  the  ordinary  atlas  places  on  one  page  a  map 
of  Cuba  and  on  another  a  map  of  Massachusetts, 
one  rather  easily  jumps  to  the  erroneous  conclusion 
that  Cuba  and  Massachusetts  must  be  about  of  a 
size. 

With  all  their  energy  it  took  the  Spaniards  about 
twenty  years  after  the  discoveries  by  Columbus  to 

to  enter  into  any  treaties  impairing  her  own  independent  status  and 
not  to  permit  foreign  colonization  or  grant  foreign  naval  or  military 
privileges;  that  the  Government  shall  not  contract  debts  beyond  the 
adequacy  of  the  revenues;  that  the  Government  of  the  United  States 
may  intervene  to  preserve  Cuban  independence,  or  to  insure  the  life, 
liberty,  and  property  of  individuals,  or  to  safeguard  other  obligations, 
etc.  Under  this  clause,  owing  to  a  violent  rebellion  in  the  island  inci- 
dent to  an  election,  the  United  States  did  intervene  in  1906  and  a 
virtual  occupation  continued  until  1909,  when  it  was  deemed  safe 
once  more  to  withdraw  the  American  troops.  Subsequent  disorders 
have  been  dealt  with  effectively  by  the  Cuban  authorities  without 
further  invocation  of  the  Platt  Amendment.  Sugar  and  sugar  products 
form  three  quarters  of  the  export  trade  of  the  island;  tobacco  figures 
at  about  sixteen  per  cent  of  the  total;  and  fruits,  coffee,  cocoa,  min- 
erals, etc.,  supply  the  remainder. 


32  SAILING  SOUTH 

plant  settlements  on  the  coasts  of  Cuba,  but  when 
they  came  they  came  thick  and  fast.  The  sheltered 
climate  and  the  available  harbors  naturally  led  to  the 
first  settlement  of  the  southern  coast  and  as  a  matter 
of  fact  the  original  Havana  was  located  there.  But 
the  discovery  of  a  still  better  harbor  on  the  north- 
ern side  soon  changed  all  that,  and  the  Havana  that 
we  know  promptly  supplanted  San  Cristobal  de  la 
Habana,  assuming  a  strategic  importance  easy  to 
comprehend  because  of  its  command  of  the  narrow 
straits  between  Cuba  and  the  Florida  keys.  Indeed, 
this  importance  was  self -destructive  on  at  least  two 
occasions,  for  successive  incursions  of  buccaneers 
put  Havana  to  the  torch  with  the  idea  of  getting  rid 
of  the  meddlesome  place.  This,  however,  merely 
insured  the  heavier  fortification  of  the  city;  and  by 
1600,  a  score  of  years  before  the  landing  of  the  Pil- 
grims in  New  England,  the  grim  fortress  on  the  point, 
now  famous  the  world  over  as  the  Morro  Castle,  had 
been  begun. 

Little  enough  was  done  for  many  years  by  way  of 
exploiting  the  natural  fertility  of  the  island,  Spain 
preferring  the  quest  for  precious  ores  in  a  not  un- 
natural desire  —  not  yet  extinct  among  men  —  to 
"get  rich  quick."  Havana  was  the  chief  gateway  to 
the  unknown  —  the  port  where  expeditions  for  pur- 
poses of  exploration  were  fitted  out.  Such  hardy 


HAVANA  33 

pioneers  as  De  Soto  made  it  their  base.  Tardily, 
indeed,  did  Spain  abandon  the  hope  of  finding  silver 
and  gold;  but  when  she  suddenly  recognized  the 
incomparable  fertility  of  the  Cuban  soil,  she  carried 
thither  sugar  cane  from  the  Canaries  and  thereby 
opened  up  an  industry  which  in  a  brief  time  put  the 
mining  operations  to  sleep.  Cuba  became  valuable, 
not  for  what  was  dug  out  of  the  soil,  but  for  what 
was  put  into  it.  The  native  Indian  stock  being  all 
but  exterminated  by  this  time,  slave  labor  from 
Africa  was  brought  in  —  thus  mingling  curses  with 
blessings  in  the  usual  human  way. 

Apart  from  a  quaintly  incongruous  interval,  dur- 
ing which  Cuba  was  actually  conquered  and  held  in 
subjection  by  English  and  American  colonial  troops 
under  Albemarle  (1762-63),  Cuba  has  been  incurably 
Spanish.  Nothing  was  then  heard  of  any  revolt 
against  the  rule  of  the  Most  Catholic  Kings;  and 
when  Havana  discovered  in  1808  that  one  Napoleon 
had  impiously  overthrown  the  reigning  Spanish 
dynasty  at  Madrid,  Cuba  promptly  declared  war 
on  Napoleon!  Fourscore  years  later,  however,  the 
"ever  faithful"  island  had  learned  a  different  tune. 
Revolution,  with  all  its  attendant  horrors  of  "re- 
concentration  camps"  and  other  repressive  schemes 
of  Captain-General  Weyler,  led  swiftly  to  the  inter- 
vention of  America,  the  conquest  of  Cuba,  the  peace 


34  SAILING  SOUTH 

with  Spain,  and  the  ultimate  independence  of  the 
insular  republic  —  independence  with,  it  is  true,  a 
few  salutary  strings  to  it  in  the  shape  of  the  half- 
forgotten  but  still  vital  "Platt  Amendment," 
whereby  it  is  incumbent  upon  Cuba  to  behave,  to 
keep  clean,  to  pay  her  debts,  and  to  keep  European 
hands  off. 

Whether  or  not  Cuba  truly  loves  the  United 
States  it  would  be  rash  to  say.  Appearances  indi- 
cate a  genuine  appreciation.  Monuments  commem- 
orating the  salutary  deeds  of  the  Americans  under 
General  Wood  adorn  the  Prado,  and  above  all  the 
Cubans  have  learned  that  to  be  clean,  decent,  and 
reasonably  law-abiding  actually  pays.  Nevertheless 
there  is  bound  to  be  some  latent  restiveness  under 
the  feeling  that  there  is  a  shadowy  sort  of  guard- 
ianship lurking  behind  the  freedom  —  a  certain 
resentment  of  the  feeling  that  always  attends  a 
"Thou  shalt  not,"  even  though  the  prohibition  be 
for  one's  admitted  good. 

Mountainous  to  west  and  south,  Cuba  is  visible 
from  afar  to  the  eye  of  faith.  Viewed  from  a  remote 
but  approaching  ship,  every  island  is  likely  to  seem 
at  first  a  cloud.  Dispute  is  certain  to  arise  among 
those  who  see  it  and  those  who  do  not.  But  such  dis- 
putes have  the  merit  of  solving  themselves  in  a  very 
brief  interval  of  time  in  favor  of  the  sharper- visioned. 


HAVANA  35 

That  long  blue  cloud,  half  visible  on  the  horizon, 
turns  out  to  be  land  after  all.  Ships  are  seen  to  be 
converging  upon  it.  Trailing  smokes  from  deep 
glens  in  the  hillsides  betoken  the  burning  of  the 
refuse  of  plantations.  That  white  splash  on  the 
landscape  at  the  water's  edge  must  be  Havana  —  a 
name  that  instantly  suggests  the  aroma  of  a  billion 
boxes  of  incomparable  cigars. 

My  own  first  view  of  Havana  came  at  a  fortu- 
nate hour  —  that  just  preceding  sunset  on  a  day  of 
indescribable  beauty.  For  two  days  it  had  been  fine, 
and  the  dirty  weather  of  the  northern  latitudes  had 
been  forgotten.  The  previous  evening  we  had 
skirted  the  Florida  coast,  well  inshore  to  avoid  the 
thrust  of  the  Gulf  Current  —  a  thoroughly  flat, 
stale,  and  unprofitable  Florida  coast,  relieved  of 
utter  monotony  only  by  the  garish  lights  of  Palm 
Beach.  That  notable  retreat  we  passed  in  the 
dark,  so  close  at  hand  that  hardened  travelers  on 
deck  affected  to  pick  out  definite  objects,  such  as 
hotels  and  a  single  errant  trolley-car.  That  super- 
latively honest  mariner,  the  chief  officer,  persuaded 
two  innocent  maiden  ladies  of  uncertain  age  that  the 
planet  Venus  was  the  light  of  an  airplane,  which  he 
said  made  nightly  voyages  for  the  delectation  of 
holiday-making  millionaires,  and  he  called  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  that  it  was  actually  following  us 


36  SAILING  SOUTH 

along.  So  it  did  —  night  after  night,  and  all  the  way 
to  Panama ;  but  for  the  moment  it  was  unquestion- 
ingly  accepted  as  an  airship  and  much  exclamation 
at  its  steady  flight  might  be  heard  well  into  the 
evening. 

Then  came  the  cloudless  dawn,  the  early  glimpses 
of  the  Key  West  viaduct,  and  a  day  of  ploughing 
through  a  summer  sea  —  until  at  last,  just  as  light 
was  failing,  we  entered  the  narrow  gut  between  the 
Morro  and  the  city. 

I  have  seen  many  harbors  in  this  hemisphere  and 
the  other,  but  I  am  persuaded  that  not  one  of  them 
is  lovelier  than  that  of  Havana,  as  a  matter  of  ap- 
proaches. It  is  a  surprising  place.  You  come  up  to 
within  a  mile  or  so  before  you  really  see  what  it  is 
like,  and  then  you  perceive  that  a  narrow  inlet  be- 
tween two  forts  opens  into  a  broad  and  well-pro- 
tected inner  basin.  Cuba  is  high  and  bold  enough  to 
be  seen  afar.  We  made  it  out  in  the  early  afternoon. 
But  Havana  itself  we  did  not  uncover  until  just  as 
the  sun  was  sinking  in  an  incredible  glory,  shedding 
a  mellow  light  over  the  western  sea  and  gilding  the 
water-front  of  the  gleaming  city  with  a  beauty 
hardly  to  be  described.  Across  the  golden  path  of 
the  sun  there  loafed  a  leisurely  schooner,  outward 
bound.  Ashore  the  lights  began  to  twinkle  from  the 
rocks.  Street  after  street  flashed  into  long  strings 


HAVANA  37 

of  twinkling  gems  as  if  by  magic.  Still  it  was  not 
yet  night  —  only  the  dusk  of  a  summer's  day.  It 
seemed  a  toy  town,  spreading  far  along  the  margin 
of  the  bay  and  wandering  off  inland  to  the  hills. 
On  the  port  bow  loomed  the  ancient  fortress  of  the 
Morro  Castle  with  its  tower  —  a  faded  old  fort,  rose- 
pink  in  the  light  of  that  marvelous  afterglow,  and 
crowned  with  its  grim  lighthouse  whereon  I  was 
speedily  able  to  make  out  in  bold  letters  that  valiant 
and  highly  Spanish  name,  O'Donnell!  I  felt  at  home 
at  once,  of  course.  But  why  O'Donnell? 

Well,  it  seems  that  Leopold  O'Donnell,  Duke  of 
Tetuan,  was  governor-general  of  Cuba  in  1843,  and 
I  suppose  he  got  his  name  tattooed  on  the  Morro 
while  he  was  in  residence.  You  will  also  find  streets 
named  for  him  all  over  Old  Spain  itself,  for  he  was  a 
valiant  fighter  as  became  one  of  that  lineage.  Orig- 
inally, no  doubt,  his  family  was  Irish,  although  he 
himself  was  born  in  Teneriffe  and  died  in  France. 
Nor  was  he  the  only  Irish  association  to  be  met  with 
in  Havana,  for  the  second  of  the  two  chief  commer- 
cial streets  later  turned  out  to  be  named  O'Reilly, 
heavily  disguised  in  the  local  pronunciation  as 
Oh-ray-eel-yeh.  A  genuine  Irishman  he  was,  born  in 
Dublin  and  long  antedating  O'Donnell  as  a  soldier 
of  fortune  in  Most  Catholic  Spain,  for  he  flourished 
between  1725  and  1794.  In  the  1760*3  he  served  as 


38  SAILING  SOUTH 

governor  in  Havana  and  still  later  held  sway  in 
Louisiana.  Thus  early  did  the  Irish  come  to  their 
own! 

Through  a  constricted  strait  that  seemed  barely 
wide  enough  to  let  us  pass  we  steamed  to  the  inner 
bay  and  dropped  anchor  not  far  from  the  spot  where 
the  Maine  was  destroyed.  By  a  coincidence  a  grim 
United  States  naval  vessel  was  anchored  there  - 
the  Montana  —  and  from  her  decks  came  the  ani- 
mated music  of  the  ship's  band,  obedient  to  that 
famous  naval  rule,  "the  band  shall  play  while 
coaling  ship."  On  either  shore  the  white  city  faded 
away  into  the  darkness  of  a  balmy  night,  picked  out 
in  glittering  rows  of  lights.  Ferries  plied  to  and  fro. 
The  donkey-engines  started  their  clanking  chorus, 
and  then  —  "All  passengers  to  the  dining- saloon 
or  the  doctor,  please!"  Oh,  dear! 

Of  course  it 's  a  matter  of  form.  The  doctor  has  to 
be  passed.  So  you  must  go  down  and  sit  in  a  most 
depressing  silence  waiting  for  him  —  the  hushed 
stillness  broken  only  by  the  voice  of  some  wag,  who 
remarks  after  a  painful  interval,  "What  a  dressy 
funeral!"  Thereupon  we  all  laugh  and  feel  better. 
But  there  are  always  half  a  dozen  passengers  who 
cannot  be  found  and  who  have  to  be  chased  through 
the  ship,  from  garboard  strake  to  maintruck  —  what- 
ever those  are.  Eventually  they  are  herded  in, 


HAVANA  39 

cursed  sotto  wee  by  sweating  stewards  and  more 
audibly  by  the  impatient  passengers  who  were 
prompt.  And  now,  behold,  the  doctor  cometh  also 
—  a  squat,  fierce-looking  Spaniard.  He  walks  up 
and  down,  glaring  terribly.  In  some  previous  in- 
carnation he  must  have  been  a  basilisk.  If  looks  could 
kill,  you  would  die.  You  can  see  the  dotted  lines 
running  from  his  eyes.  His  glance  falls  on  you,  and 
you  quake.  Can  it  be  that  you  look  ill?  You  cer- 
tainly feel  kind  of  queer!  But  no!  He  passes  on, 
still  glowering  fearfully,  and  finally  he  shouts  in 
one  heart-arresting  moment  those  blessed  words, 
now  common  to  every  tongue — "All  raight!" 
You  can  go  ashore  —  that  is,  you  can  in  the  sweet 
by-and-by.  The  immigration  authorities  have  got 
to  have  a  fresh  look  at  you  first,  and  then  they  Ve 
got  to  dock  the  ship.  Of  course  you  stand  around 
impatiently  and  swear  at  the  delays  —  but  by 
another  hour  you  are  free;  you  dash  through  the 
spicy  aroma  of  the  great  dock;  you  hail  a  ten-cent 
cab,  and  rattle  off  through  those  quaint  stage-setting 
streets  to  a  shore  hotel.  Dinner  on  land  seems  an 
entrancing  prospect,  after  four  days  of  ship's  food  — 
albeit  ship's  food  is  pretty  good. 

Fleeting  touristical  experiences  such  as  mine  do 
not  entitle  one  to  speak  with  the  authority  of  an 
expert,  but  rather  as  one  of  the  scribes.  Neverthe- 


40  SAILING  SOUTH 

less  I  am  anxious  to  say  at  once  that  I  liked  Havana. 
To  be  sure,  we  saw  it  on  the  first  day  under  rather 
restricted  circumstances,  because  it  happened  to  be 
on  February  24  —  in  other  words,  the  equivalent  of 
July  4  in  Cuba  Libre.  Naturally  things  were  shut  up 
and  the  streets  presented  long  arrays  of  blank  win- 
dows. The  world  was  at  play.  Yet  there  was  no 
unseemly  din.  I  heard  a  few  firecrackers  popping. 
I  saw  no  feux  d  'artifice.  There  were  horse-races  at 
the  great  track  at  Marianao  which  were  said  to  be 
splendid,  and  no  doubt  there  were  also  cock-fights 
for  those  who  would  see.  But  for  the  most  part 
Havana  seemed  to  be  taking  a  nap  —  with  the 
advantage  that  it  was  amply  hot  enough  to  warrant 
any  one  in  seeking  a  secluded  shade  to  sleep. 

Occupying  a  curving  water-front,  Havana  is  easy 
to  get  lost  in.  You  soon  lose  your  bearings,  much  as 
the  untutored  do  in  circular  Boston.  The  streets 
are  very  narrow  —  many  of  them  "one-way"  thor- 
oughfares —  and  the  sidewalks  are  mere  ribbons. 
But  these  same  streets  are,  so  far  as  I  had  a  chance 
to  examine  them,  admirably  clean.  Indeed,  the 
cleanliness  of  everything  struck  me  as  beyond 
praise.  It  was  not  ever  thus.  General  Wood  was  the 
man  who  made  Havana  a  spotless  town  and  con- 
verted it  from  a  plague-spot  to  a  paradise  —  and  his 
fame  is  preserved,  as  I  have  said  before,  by  a  tablet 


HAVANA  41 

in  the  handsome  Prado  boulevard.  Better  still,  the 
Cubans  appear  not  to  have  lapsed  from  what  Gen- 
eral Wood  taught  them.  They  keep  clean.  Every 
day  is  clean-up  day  in  Havana.  Now  and  then,  to 
be  sure,  the  dreaded  bubonic  breaks  out  in  the  lower 
areas  by  the  water-front,  but  it  is  soon  curbed. 
Vessels  lying  at  the  pier  wear  great  tin  collars  on 
their  hawsers  to  prevent  the  entrance  of  wharf-rats 
bearing  noxious  fleas. 

1  Narrow  streets  go  with  hot  climates.  There  is  sure 
to  be  a  shady  side,  and  the  sun's  penetrations  to  the 
pavement  are  brief.  The  Havana  architecture  is 
European  rather  than  American  —  I  should  say  it 
was  Spanish  if  I  knew  for  certain  that  there  was  such 
a  thing.  Especially  in  the  case  of  the  cathedral  is 
this  a  permissible  remark,  for  that  ancient  and  noble 
edifice  is  as  Spanish  as  you  please,  outwardly.  In- 
wardly it  is  at  once  not  Spanish  and  most  disap- 
pointing. One  sees  it  best  from  the  tiny  square  out- 
side, whence  it  is  a  pure  delight.  Its  mammoth  bells, 
hung  in  tower-niches  much  too  small  for  them,  add 
to  the  charm. 

Time  was  when  it  sheltered  the  reputed  bones  of 
Columbus  —  although  the  identity  alike  of  the 
casket  and  of  its  occupant  has  been  disputed.  The 
tomb  is  empty  now,  and  the  supposed  Columbus 
rests  in  a  gaudy  catafalque  in  the  huge  cathedral  of 


42  SAILING  SOUTH 

Seville,  borne  aloft  by  four  grotesque  images  which 
I  could  wish  I  had  never  seen.  Little  is  left  to  make 
the  denuded  Havana  cathedral  famous,  save  its 
fagade,  some  marvelous  vestments,  and  an  alleged 
Murillo. 

Down  through  the  midst  of  the  town  there  runs 
a  broad  thoroughfare  cut  in  twain  throughout  its 
course  by  a  green  parkway.  This  is  the  Prado, 
highly  suggestive  of  the  celebrated  Ramblas  of  Bar- 
celona. Up  and  down  its  shaded  walks  pass  the  peo- 
ple of  the  city.  Its  sides  are  lined  with  thoroughly 
handsome  buildings,  chiefly  white.  The  procession 
of  Fords  is  interminable.  Open  carriages  are  steadily 
wending  their  way  hither  and  yon.  Those  .marked 
with  a  splash  of  red  paint  on. the  lanterns  are  open 
to  hire  for  ten  cents;  the  others  double.  Very  proba- 
bly the  price  has  advanced,  however,  since  this  was 
written.  Carriages  are  cheap  in  Havana  —  and  so 
are  cigars;  but  nothing  else.  Complaint  of  the  ex- 
pensiveness  of  Havana  hotels  was  to  be  heard  on 
every  hand  even  three  or  four  years  ago;  and  it 
seems  rather  too  bad  that  it  should  be  so,  because 
Havana  has  a  glorious  chance  to  attract  tourist 
trade,  now  that  the  world  is  upset. 

At  the  foot  of  the  Prado,  next  the  sea,  is  the 
"Malecon"  —  a  broad  park  where  the  band  plays 
of  an  evening.  You  may  hire  an  iron  chair  for  five 


Copyright  by  Publisher*  Photo  Service.  X.  Y. 

THE  CATHEDRAL,  HAVANA 


HAVANA  43 

cents  and  enjoy  the  balmy  air  and  music  until  very 
late.  In  the  intervals  between  selections  there  is 
always  the  rhythmic  wash  of  the  sea,  beating  cease- 
lessly against  ancient  walls  that  time  has  mildewed 
and  made  splendid.  The  grim  tower  of  the  Morro 
winks  its  vigilant  eye  at  you  from  across  the  strait. 
Here  of  a  truth  is  Europe,  and  only  four  days  from 
New  York  at  that  —  or  even  in  less  time^by  rail  and 
water  combined.  Given  better  hotels  —  and  these 
are  coming  fast  now  —  Havana  will  mint  gold  out 
of  her  manifold  beauties  as  the  older  world  has  done. 
For  she  is  beautiful  with  the  rich  dower  that  gilds 
Palermo,  and  Seville,  and  Granada,  and  so  many 
other  ancient  towns  for  the  voyagers  from  the 
frozen  North. 

One  is  told,  indeed,  that  the  town  runs  "wide 
open,"  and  that  a  recent  chief  of  police  was  mur- 
dered as  he  sat  in  his  carriage  because  he  had 
sought  to  close  the  gambling-hells.  Later,  they 
say,  his  assailant  was  released  from  prison  and  was 
escorted  in  triumph  through  the  Prado  by  a  jubi- 
lant mob.  It  need  not  concern  you,  however,  for  of 
the  seamy  side  of  Havana  sporting  life  you  will  see 
nothing  outwardly.  I  saw  no  drunkenness  in  my 
brief  stay.  I  was  impressed  with  the  ubiquity  of 
the  police  and  the  modern  traffic-handling  at  con- 
gested corners.  I  was  also  impressed  —  and  de- 


44  SAILING  SOUTH 

lighted  —  by  the  universality  of  admirable  tobacco. 
Why  not?  Is  not  Havana  the  cigar  capital  of  the 
universe?  Nowhere  grows  there  tobacco  to  be 
compared  with  that  of  the  vuelta  abajo!  Nowhere 
else  is  it  so  plentiful,  or  so  cheap.  You  must  seek 
out  a  fruit  stand  —  but  tobacco  is  ever  at  your 
elbow.  You  will  recklessly  buy  a  twenty-five  cent 
cigar  in  Havana,  just  because  it  is  the  same  sort 
that  would  cost  you  fifty  cents  in  New  York.  As 
for  those  unusual  smokes  that  you  permit  yourself 
in  moments  of  wild  extravagance  at  home  —  the 
kind  that  in  normal  times  retail  for  fifteen  or 
twenty  cents  straight  —  these  are  the  daily  prov- 
ender of  the  proletariat!  So  you  revel  in  them 
and,  of  course,  you  load  your  trunk  for  import 
when  you  sail  away.  For  our  Government  will  let 
you  bring  in  fifty  cigars  duty  free  —  and  it  will  not 
question  the  right  of  your  lady  wife  to  bring  in 
another  fifty  also,  assuming  that  she  intends  to 
smoke  them  herself,  no  doubt. 

I  went  to  a  cigar  factory,  of  course.  To  omit  that 
would  be  like  going  to  Paris  and  missing  the  Louvre. 
It  was  a  huge  four-story  block,  with  magnificent 
offices  below  and  workrooms  of  vast  extent  above. 
Several  hundred  men  were  rolling  cigars  of  various 
kinds,  smoking  the  while  and  giving  the  appearance 
of  not  being  too  clean.  Occasionally  there  is  a 


HAVANA  45 

lofty  desk  from  which  a  reader  intones  the  news 
of  the  day.  But  it  was  not  the  rolling,  so  much  as 
the  sorting  processes,  that  interested  me.  Weary- 
looking  women  fished  the  cured  leaves  out  of  great 
tubs  and  laid  them  with  unerring  dexterity  each  in 
its  appropriate  pile  according  to  the  color.  Weary- 
looking  men  took  great  trays  of  finished  cigars  and 
sorted  them,  likewise  by  color,  with  equally  un- 
erring dexterity.  Others  prepared  the  raw  boxes, 
into  which  still  others  laid  the  completed  product, 
all  nicely  banded  and  jacketed  and  just  the  tightest 
kind  of  a  fit.  Even  a  non-smoker's  mouth  would 
water  at  this  sight,  and  Katrina,  who  usually  re- 
gards tobacco  as  a  monster  of  most  frightful  mien, 
was  moved  first  to  endure,  then  pity,  then  invest. 
What  pretty  names  they  have,  too!  Who  shall  re- 
sist the  music  of  "Colorado  maduro,"  "exception- 
ales,"  "  regalias,"  and  their  train?  The  man  or  the 
woman  who  can  go  through  a  Cuban  cigar  emporium 
unmoved  is  fit  for  treasons,  stratagems,  and  spoils. 
On  a  fleeting  and  altogether  torrid  motor  ride 
through  the  environing  country  we  saw  some  to- 
bacco growing  —  but  it  is  n't  much  to  see.  I  so- 
berly asked  the  austere  young  man  who  guided  us 
if  he  could  n't  show  me  a  plant  "with  the  little 
cigars  just  forming"  —  but  he  looked  at  me  as  if  I 
must  be  a  most  unusual  ass. 


46  SAILING  SOUTH 

The  really  interesting  things,  apart  from  the 
cigars,  are  the  old  things  —  the  quaint  streets,  the 
old  fortresses  of  Morro  and  Cabanas.  The  average 
native  cicerone,  however,  does  n't  grasp  that.  He 
wants  you  to  see  the  modern  progress.  He  shows 
you  the  cement  factories,  the  waterworks,  and 
what  he  calls  the  "lu-nattick  asylum."  He  reels 
off  statistics  like  a  Chamber  of  Commerce.  Why 
should  you  want  to  see  a  smelly  old  place  like 
Morro  Castle?  Far  better  see  a  sugar  mill!  But  in 
the  process  you  do  manage  to  squeeze  in  a  few 
miles  of  pleasant  country  road  through  sugar  plan- 
tations and  tobacco  farms,  where  palms  and  cocoa- 
nuts  line  the  way.  You  are  surprised  to  find  that 
Cuba  in  February  is  n't  a  lush  garden  of  the  Lord, 
but  is  actually  dusty,  and  in  places  rather  bare  and 
brown. 

How  it  may  be  in  the  rest  of  the  island  I  cannot 
say,  but  if  you  stick  to  Havana  you  will  probably 
conclude  that  the  Cubans  are  n't  doing  a  half -bad 
job  with  their  newly  acquired  liberty.  They  have  a 
fine  town  and  it  is  annually  improving.  I  should 
like  to  live  in  the  Vedado  district  myself,  in  a  cool, 
white,  deep-verandaed  house  looking  out  on  the 
broad  blue  gulf. 

They  got  us  back  on  the  ship  at  4  P.M.  "  to  see  the 
doctor."  We  were  supposed  to  sail  at  5.  What  we 


HAVANA  47 

actually  did  was  to  lie  there  all  night  at  the  pier 
unloading  steel  beams,  with  periodic  crashes  and 
loud  yells  from  the  stevedores,  until  6.30  the  next 
morning.  Somehow  or  other  I  managed  to  fall  into 
a  fitful  slumber  in  the  early  morning  watch,  to 
dream  of  Hendryk  Hudson  playing  at  gigantic 
ninepins  among  the  hills;  and  through  the  mist  of 
those  dreams  I  vaguely  heard  the  mate  calling 
lustily  to  the  lighterman  — 

"Hi,  there,  Jesus-Maria!  How  many  more  bun- 
dles you  got  to  take  out?" 

"Eighteen,  sah!" 

And  shortly  after  the  piously  named  Maria  de- 
parted with  his  deckload  of  heavy  hardware,  leav- 
ing behind  him  a  holy  calm.  The  engine  telegraph 
rang  a  merry  peal,  the  screws  turned,  and  Havana 
began  to  slip  silently  away  from  us.  By  eight  bells 
it  was  a  memory.  The  reality  was  a  blue  and  boister- 
ous sea,  stirred  to  life  by  a  brisk  nor'wester  from  the 
distant  Texas  coast. 


CHAPTER  IV 
PANAMA  AND  THE  CANAL 

WITH  the  memory  fresh  upon  me  of  that 
night  of  cacophonous  horrors,  due  to  the 
unloading  of  innumerable  steel  girders,  I  sought  out 
the  purser  in  the  morning  to  tell  him  that,  like 
Mr.  Dooley,  I  had  determined  what  to  do  the  next 
time  I  felt  moved  to  travel.  I  should  "  throw  two 
hundred  dollars  out  of  the  window,  put  a  cinder  in 
my  eye,  and  go  to  sleep  on  a  shelf  in  a  boiler- works." 
But  I  really  expected  no  pity  from  him.  Pursers 
are  a  callous  lot.  He  merely  directed  my  attention 
to  the  present  beauties  of  the  sea,  billowing  bluely 
under  a  stiff  nor'wester,  and  to  the  myriad  flying 
fish  that  forever  started  up  out  of  the  water  and 
went  winging  over  the  surface  like  skipping  stones. 
That  night  we  rounded  the  western  capes  of 
Cuba  and  headed  for  Colon  and  the  Canal.  The 
next  day  and  the  day  following  we  steamed  through 
the  Caribbean  under  a  tropic  sun,  but  fanned  al- 
ways by  the  northeast  trade  wind.  Never  have  I 
seen  water  more  deeply  blue  —  not  even  in  the 
Adriatic.  By  right,  the  Caribbean  is  a  lumpy  sea; 
but  for  the  moment  it  was  delightfully  smooth.  All 


PANAMA  AND  THE  CANAL  49 

the  ship's  officers  were  in  white  duck  uniforms  — 
and  as  for  the  passengers  they  lolled  about  the 
decks  in  the  garb  of  midsummer. 

It  was  then  that  I  fell  in  with  him  whom  I  shall 
call  the  Mogul.  I  had  heard  him  chatting  with  the 
captain  who  received  him  reverentially.  From  his 
interest  in  the  hieroglyphs  of  the  Maya  Indians  I 
had  set  him  down  as  an  archaeologist.  But  by  sub- 
sequent confession  he  turned  out  to  be  the  editor 
of  a  journal  famed  in  two  worlds. 

On  Monday  noon  we  came  in  sight  of  the  Isth- 
mus. Big  blue  mountains  loomed  ahead  and  a  pall 
of  smoke  low  on  the  starboard  bow  betokened  the 
presence  of  Colon.  Nearer  approach  revealed  long 
breakwaters  presaging  sheltered  anchorage.  Then 
a  broad  harbor,  the  border  of  which  teemed  with 
buildings;  and  behind  them  lofty  palms.  A  beauti- 
ful new  concrete  hotel  stood  invitingly  on  the  point, 
fanned  by  a  sea  breeze  in  the  noonday  heat.  Vast 
docks  in  being  and  others  in  construction  marked  the 
Atlantic  terminus  of  the  watery  highway  through 
the  Isthmus  —  and  just  then  came  the  zealous 
stewards  with  their  inevitable  call  to  face  the 
doctor  in  the  dining-saloon. 

However,  he  proved  a  friendly  and  inviting 
doctor  —  a  smiling  young  chap  in  khaki  who  merely 
called  your  name  and  beamed  a  benediction  when 


50  SAILING  SOUTH 

you  rose  and  acknowledged  your  miserable  iden- 
tity. This  ordeal  over,  we  were  free  to  go  ashore  — 
and  we  did  so  with  all  speed. 

I  half  intended,  when  I  began,  to  write  in  lighter 
vein  about  the  Panama  Canal  —  but  I  have  been 
forced  to  abandon  the  project.  It  is  n't  a  thing  to 
be  treated  lightly.  It  is  too  big  and  too  noble.  To 
see  it,  even  briefly,  gives  one  a  new  and  a  justifiable 
pride  in  one's  country.  If  ever  you  feel  moved  to 
pick  flaws  in  the  United  States  and  its  people,  get 
thee  straightway  to  Panama  and  behold  a  gigantic 
miracle  —  wrought  by  America!  As  the  Mogul  re- 
marked that  day,  when  we  stood  awed  and  dwarfed 
before  the  locks  of  Gatun,  "There  is  nothing  that 
this  country  cannot  do  —  if  it  only  will!"  That  is 
so.  But  I  hasten  to  remind  you  that  only  by  deny- 
ing itself  some  of  the  pet  nonsense  of  our  blessed 
unfettered  democracy  did  it  triumph  at  Panama. 
It  was  a  one-man  job,  done  by  the  one  right  man. 
He  was  —  and  his  successor  still  is  —  supreme 
there.  The  usual  nonsense  about  every  man  being 
equal  in  a  democracy  —  with  all  the  pitiful  in- 
efficiency that  goes  with  it  —  has  had  no  place  in 
the  Zone.  The  result  is  the  canal,  built  by  the 
American  people  who,  for  once,  had  the  wit  to 
keep  politics  out  and  to  put  none  but  the  super- 
latively competent  on  the  job.  Mr.  Kipling  some- 


PANAMA  AND  THE  CANAL  51 

where  makes  one  of  his  characters  say  that  the  big 
things  of  history  are  always  one-man  jobs.  I  be- 
lieve it.  The  canal  is  an  instance  of  it. 

I  take  it  the  tendency  is  to  continue  the  con- 
dition yet  a  little  while.  There  is  still,  at  all  events, 
an  army  governor  in  "the  Zone"  —  that  strip  of 
land  reaching  from  ocean  to  ocean,  say,  six  miles 
wide,  through  which  runs  the  canal.  This  is  a 
purely  federal  jurisdiction,  and  the  governor  is  our 
duly  accredited  instrument  there.  It  appears  that 
he  is  supreme  —  practically  speaking.  Things  do 
not  go  at  sixes  and  sevens  in  the  Zone;  they  are 
really  " run"  by  the  Government.  Liquor  is  barred 
out.  Undesirable  characters  are  kept  away.  Dis- 
ease is  practically  banished,  too.  Take  the  average 
city's  death-rate  and  compare  it  with  that  of  the 
Zone,  and  then  reflect  honestly  on  the  virtue  of 
slipshod  American  city  government  when  compared 
with  the  virtues  of  this  well-managed  autocracy,  at 
which  our  democracy  so  wisely  and  providentially 
winks!  Not  that  I  would  have  you  disbelieve  in 
democracy;  for  we  have  to  believe  in  that,  or  we 
are  doomed.  But  rather  that  I  can  see  in  this  one 
exceptional  suspension  of  our  usual  instruments  of 
government  an  unanswerable  argument  for  our 
finding  the  right  man  and  letting  him  alone,  in- 
stead of  running  mad  over  "initiatives"  and  "refer- 


52  SAILING  SOUTH 

endums"  and  contemptibly  incapable  administra- 
tors, whose  one  qualification  is  that  of  being  able 
to  bamboozle  enough  foolish  voters  to  get  them- 
selves elected. 

I  came  away  from  the  Zone  a  better  American. 
So  will  any  one  who  goes  thither.  After  all,  it  is  a 
relief  once  in  a  while  to  see  a  place  that  is  really 
governed ! 

In  order  clearly  to  understand  the  Panama  Canal, 
one  must  first  gain  a  clear  conception  of  what  the 
Isthmus  itself  is  like.  The  fancy  gayly  paints  a 
mere  narrow  neck  of  land  between  two  great 
oceans;  and  as  the  neck  of  land  is  not  more  than 
fifty  miles  wide,  it  is  easy  to  imagine  a  simple  ditch 
dug  across  it,  deep  enough  and  wide  enough  for  the 
passage  of  ships.  But  no  such  conception  of  the 
case  is  accurate. 

There  is  all  the  difference  in  the  world  between 
the  Panama  Canal  and  that  at  Suez.  Suez  pre- 
sented few  difficulties  by  comparison.  Count  de 
Lesseps  had  small  trouble  in  digging  there  a  great 
sea-level  channel  through  the  sands,  which,  once 
dug,  could  be  kept  open.  At  Panama,  after  a  con- 
siderable debate  and  prolonged  investigation,  it 
was  decided  to  be  better  not  to  attempt  a  sea-level 
canal,  but  to  build  one  with  locks  and  dams.  Now 
that  it  is  completed,  it  seems  odd  that  one  should 


PANAMA  AND  THE  CANAL  53 

have  thought  of  doing  it  in  any  other  way.  But  one 
has  to  take  a  long  and  illuminating  look  at  the 
Isthmus  to  see  why  this  is  so. 

The  first  discoverers  of  the  Isthmus  must  have 
found  it  amazingly  impenetrable,  for  not  only  is  it 
highly  mountainous  on  its  western  side,  but  also  it 
is  covered  with  a  dense  jungle  growth,  as  different 
from  the  open  barrenness  of  Suez  as  anything 
could  be.  No  one  can  appreciate  the  jungle  who 
has  not  seen  it.  An  ordinary  northern  forest  with 
dense  underbrush  is  nothing  to  it.  A  jungle  is  al- 
most a  solid  mass  of  vegetation  through  which  one 
must  hack  one's  way,  foot  by  foot,  aided  by  a 
machete  or  knife  as  long  as  a  saber.  What  is  worse, 
the  jungle  will  grow  up  behind  you  almost  as  fast 
as  you  can  cut  it  down.  The  Spaniards  who  came 
first  to  Panama  nevertheless  succeeded  in  cutting  a 
path  across  to  the  Pacific  and  even  made  a  rude 
paved  road,  over  which  they  later  transported  the 
magnificent  loot  which  they  took  home  from  Peru 
and  the  Incas.  Traces  of  that  road  are  still  visible, 
despite  the  jungle. 

Years  after  came  Mr.  Aspinwall,  a  New  York 
merchant,  with  his  plan  for  a  railroad.  It  was  built 
and  was  successfully  operated,  although  the  place 
was  a  perfect  hotbed  of  disease.  Many  of  the  early 
settlers  of  California  journeyed  by  this  route.  There 


54  SAILING  SOUTH 

was  at  one  time  a  project  for  a  marine  railroad  to 
carry  whole  ships  across,  but  it  came  to  nothing. 
The  natural  project  for  a  ship  canal,  while  always 
being  talked  of,  brought  only  futile  struggles  dur- 
ing something  like  four  hundred  years.  The  Isth- 
mus, while  hardly  two  score  miles  in  width,  was 
terribly  obdurate.  It  was  fairly  low  and  level  to- 
ward the  Atlantic  shore,  but  as  one  went  on  toward 
the  Pacific  one  encountered  the  great  ridge  which 
serves  to  connect  the  Rockies  of  the  north  with  the 
Andes  of  the  south.  This  must  be  cut  through,  of 
course,  and  to  cut  it  deep  enough  to  permit  a  sea- 
level  canal  would  be  a  labor  sufficient  to  make  the 
combined  tasks  of  Hercules  seem  but  child's  play. 
To  make  a  cut  deep  enough  for  an  elevated  lock 
canal,  high  above  the  ocean  levels,  was  not  so  ter- 
rible an  undertaking  —  but  it  was  terrible  enough. 
De  Lesseps,  fresh  from  his  triumphs  at  Suez, 
went  down  before  the  natural  handicaps  of  Panama, 
coupled  with  a  certain  amount  of  grafting  at  home 
and  abroad.  His  laborers  died  like  flies  in  the  pes- 
tilential air.  Ultimately  his  cars  and  shovels  were 
abandoned  where  they  stood,  and  the  jungle  en- 
gulfed them  in  its  sea  of  impenetrable  verdure. 
Years  later  came  the  American  engineers,  backed 
by  American  doctors,  and  the  gigantic  task  was 
assailed  anew  —  this  time  with  a  success  which, 


PANAMA  AND  THE  CANAL 


55 


without  the  doctors,  would  never  have  been  won. 

The  present  Panama  Canal  amounts  to  this:  it  is 

a  great  artificial  inland  pond  —  or  half  pond  and 

half  river  —  flooding  the  whole  interior  basin  of 


CANAL  ZONE 

the  Isthmus  and  reached  from  either  ocean  by 
climbing  three  titanic  steps.  The  engineers  simply 
took  the  greatest  local  river,  the  Chagres,  and 
dammed  it  up,  so  that  it  formed  a  lake  in  the  basin 
of  the  land.  Then  they  dug  a  channel  through  the 


56  SAILING  SOUTH 

western  hills;  built  locks  at  either  end  to  lift  ships 
up  or  let  them  down;  and  dug  short  sea-level  inlets 
from  either  ocean.  For  the  water  in  the  canal 
proper,  the  Chagres  is  relied  upon.  To  go  from 
Atlantic  to  Pacific,  a  ship  must  be  lifted  up  until 
it  attains  the  level  of  the  main  canal,  and  at  the 
other  end  must  be  let  down  again. 

The  result  is  that  the  canal  does  n't  look  very 
much  as  you  expect  a  canal  to  look.  For  the  first 
five  or  six  miles  as  you  go  in  from  the  Atlantic  it 
lives  up  to  the  usual  reputation  of  such  things,  but 
at  that  point  you  come  to  the  Gatun  locks.  These 
are  three  in  number,  arranged  in  "  double- track " 
style,  so  that  ships  can  be  sent  both  ways  without 
waiting  for  one  another.  If  you  can  imagine  a 
series  of  ordinary  canal  locks,  but  magnified  several 
hundred  fold  and  built  of  concrete  so  that  they 
present  the  appearance  of  mammoth  upward  steps, 
you  will  get  an  idea  of  the  sight. 

The  ship  glides  into  the  first  lock,  which  is  at 
sea-level,  and  is  shut  in  there.  Then  water  is  ad- 
mitted from  the  adjacent  lock  above  and  the  ship 
begins  imperceptibly  to  rise.  When  the  basin  is 
filled,  the  huge  gates  in  front  are  opened  and  the 
vessel  is  towed  into  the  second  chamber.  Safely 
penned  in  there,  it  is  once  again  lifted  by  admitting 
still  more  water  —  and  eventually  it  is  thus  raised 


PANAMA  AND  THE  CANAL  57 

aloft  to  the  level  of  the  main  canal.  But  no  mere 
words  can  give  you  an  idea  of  the  stupendous  size 
of  such  works  as  this,  capable  of  accommodating 
the  largest  craft  afloat  and  of  handling  it  as  if  it 
were  a  child's  toy.  The  great  gates  are  like  the 
sides  of  mammoth  city  blocks.  Down  inside  the 
concrete  walls  are  tunnels  and  complicated  ma- 
chinery whereby  the  mammoth  mechanism  is  oper- 
ated. Merely  turning  a  switch  does  it  all.  A  child 
could  operate  it  —  and  yet  it  involves  powers  such 
as  the  ancients  imagined  to  be  wielded  only  by 
mighty  Jove. 

Arriving  as  we  did  in  early  afternoon  and  being 
pressed  for  time,  as  cruising  transients  must  usually 
be,  we  elected  to  motor  out  to  Gatun.  In  that  way 
you  can  see  the  great  dam  and  the  three  locks  of 
this  eastern,  or  rather  northern,  end  of  the  canal, 
and  then  take  the  evening  train  across  to  Panama 
at  the  Pacific  end.  Gatun  is  the  big  show,  really.  It 
was  there  that  they  built  the  prodigious  dam  that 
holds  back  the  Chagres  and  thus  makes  the  whole 
canal.  At  this  end  the  three  locks  are  grouped  — 
whereas  at  the  other  end  they  are  distributed  be- 
tween "Peter  McGiH"  (Pedro  Miguel)  and  Mira- 
flores. 

It  is  a  pleasant  motor  ride  out  from  Colon  over 
a  good  road  besprent  with  oil.  You  see  nothing 


58  SAILING  SOUTH 

whatever  of  the  canal  until  you  get  to  Gatun  it- 
self. You  are  delighted,  however,  with  the  tropical 
vegetation  that  lines  the  highway,  and  you  are 
impressed  with  the  neatness  and  trimness  of  the 
habitations  that  go  to  form  the  villages  of  the 
Zone.  Colon,  indeed,  is  a  rather  flat,  stale,  and  un- 
profitable town.  It  is  too  new.  The  houses  are  all 
much  alike,  all  painted  a  monotonous  slate-gray 
that  is  said  to  stand  the  climate  better  than  any- 
thing else,  and  all  screened  from  top  to  bottom 
against  the  baneful  mosquitoes  that  of  old  made 
the  Isthmus  a  plague-spot.  The  conquering  of  the 
mosquito  was  the  first  step  —  but  he  is  conquered. 
To-day  there  is  n't  a  more  healthful  spot  on  earth 
than  the  Zone.  You  leave  the  town  and  circle  away 
into  the  country,  and  for  half  an  hour  you  exclaim 
over  the  palms  and  the  flowers.  Imagine,  if  you 
please,  wonderful  orchids  that  you  would  pay  un- 
told sums  for  in  the  United  States,  all  growing  wild 
as  parasites  on  the  wayside  trees! 

Then  comes  another  village,  set  on  a  hill,  and 
beyond  it,  shining  whitely  in  the  tropic  sun,  the 
vast  concrete  stretches  of  the  Gatun  locks.  This, 
then,  is  the  canal!  You  can  see  it  now,  stretching 
away  to  meet  the  Atlantic,  in  a  silver  ribbon.  It 
looks  absurdly  narrow,  yet  two  great  liners  could 
pass  in  it,  easily.  As  for  the  locks,  they  are  chastely 


PANAMA  AND  THE  CANAL  59 

beautiful.  If  one  thing  surprised  me  more  than  an- 
other about  this  stupendous  work  it  was,  as  Ka- 
trina  puts  it,  that  it  was  "so  good-looking."  The 
gashes  and  scars  of  constructive  work  are  healed. 
The  design  of  the  works  is  simple,  but  dignified  and 
handsome.  It  is  sublimely  ship-shape.  Nothing  is 
out  of  place.  Nothing  is  overdone.  The  railroad 
station,  hard  by,  is  like  a  villa.  So  are  the  official 
buildings  —  all  of  white  concrete  with  red  tiled 
roofs.  Art  and  utility  have  gone  hand  in  hand. 

You  alight  and  wander  down  over  the  locks.  You 
cross  them  on  the  top  of  a  gigantic  gate.  How 
enormous  it  is  you  can  never  guess,  because  the 
lock  is  full  of  water  and  you  cannot  see  into  the 
depths.  To  one  side  lies  the  huge  inland  lake 
formed  by  the  dam.  To  the  other,  the  descending 
line  of  the  dual  locks,  and  beyond  them  the  low- 
lying  channel  that  dwindles  away  until  it  meets 
the  sea. 

You  are  free  to  walk  about  and  to  make  pictures. 
Zone  police,  who  look  like  soldiers,  are  everywhere 
and  are  very  glad  to  have  you  talk  with  them. 
They  find  life  very  dull,  indeed,  especially  in  days 
of  suspended  traffic,  which  were  very  frequent 
when  the  slides  of  earth  were  forever  blocking  the 
canal.  It  is  small  fun  to  sit  for  hours  watching  a 
huge  concrete  lock  basking  in  a  midsummer  sun; 


60  SAILING  SOUTH 

yet  it  must  be  done,  else  some  designing  lunatic 
might  slip  a  stick  of  dynamite  into  the  lock  and 
ruin  the  work  of  years.  The  Great  War  intensified 
that  fear. 

On  each  side  of  the  waterway  you  will  see  narrow 
tracks,  and  on  them  some  squat,  beetle-like  electric 
tractors  of  unguessable  potency.  These  are  used 
like  oxen  to  tow  the  vessels  from  one  lock  to  the 
next  —  attached  to  each  side.  Only  in  the  canal 
proper  does  the  passing  ship  use  its  own  power.  In 
the  lock  it  is  moved  cautiously  by  these  great  but 
slow-moving  engines.  You  will  likewise  observe 
some  enormous  chains  of  iron  stretched  across  the 
entrance  to  guard  against  accident  if  a  ship  ever 
should  break  away  from  its  other  apron-strings  and 
run  wild.  And  up  at  the  lake  end  —  the  one  blemish 
on  all  the  chaste  beauty  of  the  concrete  —  are  some 
vast  steel  frameworks  containing  the  emergency 
gates.  On  extreme  occasions,  all  else  failing,  a  turn  of 
the  wrist  would  swing  those  gigantic  structures  across 
the  canal  and  drop  gates  into  the  aperture  below. 
This  has  been  done  only  for  drill  purposes  —  and  of 
course  for  the  movies.  The  chance  of  needing  the 
emergency  gate  is  remote  —  but  the  Government 
takes  no  chances.  So  far  as  one  can  see,  every  con- 
tingency is  provided  for,  except  "acts  of  God." 

You  are  hardly  conscious  of  the  dam  at  all,  but 


PANAMA  AND  THE  CANAL  61 

you  may  walk  out  across  its  gigantic  top  and  see  the 
spillway  provided  to  let  the  Chagres  run  free  when- 
ever the  lake  is  full.  I  should  have  liked  to  see  it 
in  the  rainy  season,  when  it  is  pouring  out  in  full 
cataract  —  but  on  our  visit  it  was  almost  dry.  Our 
captain  says  that  the  seasons  in  Panama  are  "nine 
months  rainy  and  three  months  wet"  —  but  for 
the  moment  the  showers  forbore  and  the  level  of  the 
lake  was  not  quite  up  to  the  point  where  the  river 
must  pour  out  its  bounteous  surplus.  Meanwhile  a 
cooling  breath  of  air  streamed  in  from  the  sea  and 
made  it  a  perfect  June  afternoon. 

About  five  o'clock  the  train  comes  along  and  you 
can  go  over  to  Panama  by  rail  in  the  fading  light. 
It  is  a  fine  American  railroad,  much  broader  than 
our  roads  at  home  and  served  by  oil-burning  engines 
that  allow  you  open  windows  and  freedom  from 
dirt.  It  is  a  wonderful  ride,  with  the  great  wall  of 
the  solid  jungle  coming  closely  down  to  the  right- 
of-way  —  a  jungle  of  queer  trees,  queer  birds,  and 
abundant  flowers.  Now  and  again  you  pass  a  tiny 
hamlet,  composed  of  old,  discarded  freight  cars, 
all  mounted  on  stilts  and  sheltering  agglomerations 
of  negroes.  Poor  and  squalid  as  these  habitations 
are,  you  will  see  pots  of  tropical  flowers  growing  by 
the  door  —  flowers  that  at  home  would  cost  you  a 
dollar  a  blossom  at  the  lowest! 


62  SAILING  SOUTH 

For  a  time  you  skirt  the  edges  of  the  artificial  lake 
—  a  lake  as  big  as  a  county.  Out  of  its  waters  tower 
the  dying  limbs  of  forests  of  trees.  The  water  has 
invaded  what  was  once  the  jungle  and  has  killed  it. 
In  time  these  bare  branches  will  all  be  gone;  but 
for  the  present  they  are  pathetic  in  their  abject  and 
miserable  nakedness,  for  miles  and  miles.  Of  the 
actual  steamer  channel  through  the  lake  you  can  see 
nothing,  for  the  road  winds  far  away  from  it.  But  as 
you  near  the  western  hills,  where  the  great  lake  ends 
and  only  a  narrow  channel  serves  to  give  passage  to 
ships  through  the  bulk  of  the  mountain  ridge,  you 
come  upon  it  again.  It  is  here  that  one  finds  all  the 
trouble  —  the  slides  due  to  the  hills  of  Culebra. 
A  hint  of  the  mischief  is  seen  in  the  passing  of 
dredging  scows,  with  now  and  then  the  towering 
bulk  of  a  dredge  itself  —  the  greatest  in  the  world. 
But  of  the  Culebra  Cut  —  now  renamed  for  En- 
gineer Gaillard  —  you  see  nothing.  It  is  hidden  by 
the  hills,  and  its  inspection  must  await  another  day. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  ZONE  AND  THE  REPUBLIC 

THAT  glorious  condition  in  which  you  cannot 
tell  where  one  thing  leaves  off  and  another 
begins  is  well  typified  in  the  situation  at  the  Isthmus 
where,  with  a  harmony  that  is  subject  to  change 
and  correction  without  notice,  the  United  States 
maintains  a  strip  subject  to  its  federal  jurisdiction 
straight  through  the  midst  of  the  new-hatched  and 
as  yet  hardly  fledged  Republic  of  Panama. 

The  republic  was  born  somewhat  prematurely,  if 
memory  serves,  but  not  altogether  unexpectedly  to 
Mr.  Roosevelt's  watchful  and  determined  adminis- 
tration. There  was  n't  much  trouble.  And  possibly 
in  consideration  of  the  watchfulness  which  per- 
mitted this  painless  separation  of  the  new  republic 
from  the  older  entity  of  Colombia,  the  United  States 
acquired  right,  title,  and  interest  to  a  six-mile  belt 
from  sea  to  sea  —  six  miles  wide  and  perhaps  fifty 
miles  long  —  in  the  center  of  which  it  might  dig  its 
mammoth  ship  canal  to  unite  the  Atlantic  and 
Pacific  Oceans. 

It  was  not  our  fortune  to  see  very  much  of  the 
Atlantic  end  of  the  Zone,  or  to  pass  any  time  at  the 


64  SAILING  SOUTH 

Washington  Hotel  which  the  Federal  Government 
maintains  on  the  Atlantic  side  in  a  location  which 
ought  to  insure  a  most  delicious  ocean  breeze.  Chris- 
topher Columbus  lives  anew  in  the  dual  names  of 
the  terminal  town  —  Cristobal,  where  our  Govern- 
ment holds  sway,  and  Colon,  where  the  sovereignty 
vests  in  Panama.  Cruisers  like  ourselves  are  slaves 
of  the  ship.  We  may  see  what  time  permits  and  no 
more.  And  as  the  Pacific  side  is  infinitely  the  finer  of 
the  two  for  those  whose  stay  must  be  brief,  thither 
we  betook  ourselves,  as  has  been  said,  by  the  wings 
of  the  five-o'clock  train,  reaching  the  governmental 
hotel,  the  Tivoli,  in  season  for  a  belated  dinner. 

I  first  "  stared  at  the  Pacific  "  by  night  over  a  sea- 
wall. In  the  gloom  it  looked  very  much  as  the  At- 
lantic had  done  on  the  other  side  of  the  Isthmus. 
However,  like  Byron,  I  felt  —  or  thought  I  felt  — 
no  common  glow.  The  waters  might  make  much  the 
same  swish  as  they  do  in  all  other  ports;  the  salty 
smell  might  be  the  same;  but  after  all  this  was  the 
Pacific,  a  vast  ocean  which  I  had  never  before  be- 
held —  the  selfsame  ocean  that  so  abashed  stout 
Cortez  by  revealing  that  he  had  n't  reached  China 
after  all. 

We  had  driven  down  from  the  hotel  through  the 
dusk  to  see  the  searchlight  drill  at  the  forts  —  for 
when  they  are  playing  you  can  see  the  various  islands 


THE  ZONE  AND  THE  REPUBLIC   65 

in  the  Bay  of  Panama  picked  out  with  shafts  of 
burning  light,  and  the  spectacle  is  said  to  be  very 
fine.  As  it  fell  out  we  were  much  too  late  for  the  show. 
The  Pacific,  indeed,  lay  before  us  in  all  its  mystery, 
murmuring  gently  as  it  washed  against  the  break- 
water. Far  out  on  its  obscure  bosom  were  the  lights 
of  an  anchored  ship;  but  of  the  islands  and  the  sea 
nothing  was  seen.  Overhead  the  stars  burned  bril- 
liantly in  a  cloudless  tropic  sky.  A  constellation 
fondly  believed  by  us  to  be  the  Southern  Cross,  but 
later  proved  to  be  a  fraudulent  substitute,  dignified 
the  remote  horizon. 

The  night  was  cool.  Officers  who  have  spent  years 
in  Panama  inform  me  that  they  do  not  recall  a  night 
in  all  their  residence  when  it  was  not  cool  enough  to 
make  a  blanket  welcome.  Hot  it  may  be  —  and  is  — 
by  day;  yet  even  so  it  is  never  so  intolerably  hot  as  it 
often  is  in  the  worst  part  of  a  northern  summer.  At 
night  you  may  be  sure  that  it  will  be  cool  enough 
for  entire  comfort.  I  forget  the  daily  average  tem- 
perature, but  it  is  something  between  80°  and  90°. 
This,  I  am  told,  is  true  alike  in  midwinter  and  mid- 
summer. So  far  as  the  thermometer  goes  all  seasons 
are  alike  at  the  Isthmus.  You  might  go  down  there 
in  July  and  be  no  hotter  than  you  would  be  if  you 
went  in  January.  The  difference  is  only  one  of 
moisture.  The  greater  part  of  the  year  —  spring, 


66  SAILING  SOUTH 

summer,  and  fall,  let  us  say  —  is  distinctly  rainy. 
The  winter  —  at  least  three  months  of  it  —  is  dig- 
nified by  the  term  "dry  season"  because  it  rains 
only  now  and  then  instead  of  bringing  assurance  of  a 
daily  downpour  in  the  afternoon. 

The  real  wear  and  tear  of  life  on  the  Isthmus  is  not 
due  to  terrific  extremes  of  heat,  then,  but  to  per- 
sistent heat  of  a  very  endurable  degree.  It  is  sum- 
mer all  the  time  —  a  good,  hot,  reasonable  sort  of 
midsummer,  but  without  any  welcome  let-up  save 
for  the  coolness  of  the  night  and  the  persistence  of 
the  breeze,  on  which  latter  you  may  depend  for  most 
of  the  year  and  throughout  nearly  every  day.  In 
the  early  afternoon  it  drops  away,  and  for  a  space 
the  world  remains  quietly  in  the  shade ;  but  at  four 
o'clock  it  springs  up  anew  and  life  again  begins  to 
stir. 

I  have  a  confused  recollection  of  the  goodly  city 
of  Panama,  which  is  the  chief  town  of  the  new 
Republic  of  Panama,  and  the  guardian  of  the  Pacific 
side  of  the  narrow  Isthmus.  It  is  entirely  to  the 
east  of  the  canal  entrance  and  from  the  water- 
front of  the  city  you  cannot  see  the  canal  mouth  at 
all.  Which  reminds  me  of  the  fact  that  the  Canal 
and  Isthmus  together  have  the  disconcerting  habit 
of  not  running  in  the  direction  you  naturally  expect. 
If  you  are  like  me,  you  think  of  the  Isthmus  as 


THE  ZONE  AND  THE  REPUBLIC      67 

running  north  and  south,  while  the  Canal  runs  east 
and  west.  Instead,  it  is  the  other  way  about,  roughly 
speaking.  East  of  the  city  of  Panama  is  a  sizable 
gulf,  and  the  sun  rises  out  of  it  —  which  is  thor- 
oughly subversive  of  all  your  ideas.  It  is  actually 
possible  at  the  proper  season  to  behold  the  sun 
rising  out  of  the  Pacific  and  setting  in  the  Atlantic. 
A  most  remarkable  place,  that  Isthmus!  You  will 
have  little  help  from  the  ordinary  maps  of  the  canal 
because  they  usually  ignore  the  common  custom  of 
making  the  north  come  at  the  top  of  the  page.  But 
you  must  lay  aside  your  doubts  and  accept  what  I 
tell  you.  The  sun  does  n't  really  rise  in  the  south; 
it  only  seems  to. 

It  is  hard,  when  you  are  in  the  Canal  Zone,  to  tell 
where  the  Zone  leaves  off  and  the  Republic  of  Pan- 
ama begins.  The  difference  is  a  good  deal  like  that 
between  Boston  and  Roxbury.  Nevertheless,  there 
is  an  appreciable  distinction.  The  one  is  United 
States  jurisdiction  and  the  other  is  Panamanian  — 
or,  as  Professor  Hart  would  put  it,  "  Panamese." 
The  line  between  is  imaginary  but  important.  You 
understand  that  the  United  States  has  jurisdiction 
over  a  strip  of  country  about  six  miles  broad  from 
ocean  to  ocean,  through  the  middle  of  which  runs  the 
canal.  This  affects  you,  as  a  tourist,  only  when  you 
are  in  the  terminal  cities  of  Colon  and  Panama. 


68  SAILING  SOUTH 

The  United  States  part  of  Colon  is  called  Cristobal ; 
and  the  federal  share  of  Panama  is  called  Ancon. 
The  only  visible  difference  on  crossing  the  imaginary 
line  is  that  the  policemen  are  of  a  different  aspect 
and  uniform  —  and  that  there  is  an  absence  in  the 
Zone  of  signs  announcing  the  sale  of  licores.  In 
short,  the  Zone  is  as  "dry"  as  a  covered  bridge, 
while  Panama  proper  is  not.  Steamers  tying  up  in 
Colon  are  subjected  to  a  penalty  of  one  thousand 
dollars  if  they  open  their  bars  and  sell  a  drop  of 
liquor  while  there.  Prohibition  prohibits  in  the  Zone. 
Laws  are  enforced.  Nobody  is  at  all  concerned  for 
fear  of  alienating  any  votes.  If  you  go  to  Panama 
you'll  heed  the  rules  and  regulations.  It  is  a  place 
where  an  efficiency  of  Teutonic  proportions  obtains 
all  the  time  —  and  I  like  it. 

Out  of  my  confused  remembrances  of  the  city  of 
Panama  stands  out  a  noise  of  bells.  The  carriages  all 
carry  bells  which  have  a  pleasant  two-toned  peal. 
As  you  roll  along  the  driver  is  perpetually  sounding 
a  warning  note  —  a  melodious  ding-dong,  not  too 
loud  nor  yet  too  soft,  but  at  once  restful  and  ad- 
monitory. The  motors  have  horns  and  other  devices 
as  here,  but  I  suspect  the  drivers  learned  to  use  them 
with  one  eye  on  the  nerves  of  "the  Colonel,"  as  they 
used  to  call  Governor  Goethals.  It  is  n't  likely  he 
would  stand  for  any  needlessly  nerve-racking  nui- 


THE  ZONE  AND  THE  REPUBLIC      69 

sances.  The  carriages  are  content,  at  all  events, 
with  the  bells.  Also  the  carriages  are  reasonably 
cheap.  The  cab- tariff  used  to  be  ten  cents  a  person ; 
"ten  cents  gold"  as  they  say,  meaning  ten  cents  in 
real  money.  Panamanian  money,  is  only  half  real. 
A  quarter  is  as  big  as  our  fifty-cent  piece. 

There  are  no  very  conspicuous  "lions"  to  be  seen 
in  Panama.  You  find  it  a  good  deal  larger  town  than 
you  expected,  and  reasonably  old,  too,  wherein  it 
differs  from  Colon  at  the  other  end  of  the  canal. 
Colon  is  brand-new  and  garish.  Panama  is  ancient 
and  well  established.  The  only  change  from  the 
older  days  is  that  now  the  town  is  kept  scrupulously 
clean.  Among  the  sights  one  sees  the  remnant  of 
an  ancient  church,  which  is  ruined  save  for  the  per- 
sistence of  a  tremendously  long  and  astonishingly 
flat  brick  arch.  That  arch,  plus  a  Nicaraguan  post- 
age stamp,  decided  the  location  of  the  canal.  For  one 
thing  it  was  evident  that  the  survival  of  the  arch 
betokened  a  reasonable  gentleness  in  the  Panama 
brand  of  earthquake,  else  it  would  have  been  de- 
stroyed ages  ago.  As  for  the  postage  stamp,  it  was 
of  a  Nicaraguan  issue,  and  it  bore  the  vignette  of 
an  active  volcano.  At  the  moment  Nicaragua  was 
boasting  of  her  entire  freedom  from  all  volcanic  dis- 
turbance and  arguing  that  she  ought  to  get  the 
canal  —  when  along  came  a  senator  with  this  self- 


70  SAILING  SOUTH 

damnatory  stamp!  It  proved  that  there  really  was 
a  volcano  in  Nicaragua,  and  within  a  year  of  the 
exposure  of  the  fact  that  volcano  erupted  and  de- 
stroyed a  neighboring  wharf  which  was  also  shown  in 
the  picture  on  the  stamp.  Little  things  are  always 
altering  the  big  things  in  the  course  of  history. 

Panama  is  a  pleasantly  foreign  sort  of  town.  It 
is  n't  quite  so  foreign-looking  as  Havana,  but  it  has 
a  mellowness  and  a  Spanishness  that  will  serve. 
For  contrasts  you  need  only  hire  a  cab  and  be  driven 
up  into  the  purlieus  of  Ancon  and  Balboa  Heights  — • 
the  residence  district  of  the  Powers-That-Be  in  the 
Zone.  There  you  will  find  first  a  mammoth  park 
laid  out  in  ascending  terraces  for  the  uses  of  the 
United  States  Hospital.  It  is  a  hospital  in  a  para- 
dise —  and  to  be  fully  American  I  ought  to  add  that 
it  cost  five  million.  Your  negro  driver  is  voluble  as 
you  jog  through  the  well-kept  roads  that  serve  it. 
His  chief  awe  is  for  the  new  and  handsome  crem- 
atorium—  "whah  dey  buhns  de  daid  folks,  sah, 
after  theym  daid.  Usted  to  bury  dem  in  de  cemetery, 
but  now  dey  buhns  dem.  Yessah,  jest  nachelly 
buhns  dem  up,  like  dey  was  wood.  Lan'  too  valu'ble 
fo'  no  mo'  buryin'.  Dey  buhns  dem,  an'  den  dey 
has  n't  only  a  little  bit  o*  ashes."  He  is  impressed, 
and  recurs  often  to  the  subject.  It  seems  that  there 's 
a  new  cemetery  "out  on  Corozal  road"  to  which  the 


THE  ZONE  AND  THE  REPUBLIC   71 

bodies  of  the  martyred  saints  of  other  days,  who 
had  been  interred  whole  but  in  the  path  of  the 
canal,  were  removed  when  the  dirt  began  to  fly;  but 
efficiency  decrees  the  incineration  of  those  who  shall 
die  hereafter. 

Meanwhile,  enlivened  by  the  mortuary  reflec- 
tions of  the  driver,  you  amble  gently  up  the  winding 
road  through  the  shade  of  sheltering  palms,  past 
trim  hospital  buildings  nestling  amid  a  lush  greenery, 
and  you  eventually  emerge  on  the  heights  of  Balboa, 
where  the  governor  lives,  and  the  assistant  governor, 
and  any  quantity  of  subalterns  connected  officially 
with  the  Zone.  It  is  new  yet,  but  beautiful.  There 
are  tennis  courts  baking  in  the  sun,  and  gardens  ad- 
joining trim  houses.  You  look  down  also  upon  the 
busy  life  of  the  canal  itself  —  a  ribbon  stretching  to 
the  sea  from  a  great  fissure  in  the  inland  hills.  Time 
will  gradually  heal  the  scars  that  the  digging  has 
made  in  that  cavernous  vale  below  —  indeed,  it  has 
begun  to  do  so.  For  the  moment,  however,  there  is 
rather  more  evidence  of  the  work  of  man  lying  at 
your  feet  than  there  is  elsewhere  eastward  along  the 
canal.  The  railroad  is  in  evidence  below,  and  great 
docks.  But  from  up  here  in  the  heights  they  look 
like  toys,  and  all  about  you  is  a  beautiful  residential 
neighborhood  where  it  must  be  pleasant  to  live.  In 
the  midst  is  a  simple  but  dignified  administration 


72  SAILING  SOUTH 

building,  and  a  huge  motor  'bus  is  forever  plying  up 
and  down  between  it  and  the  Government's  great 
and  admirable  hotel,  the  Tivoli,  in  town. 

If  the  present  city  of  Panama  seems  old,  it  is  not 
nearly  so  old  as  the  original  Panama,  to  which  you 
may  motor  over  a  road  that  leaves  something  still  to 
be  desired.  This  bit  of  ancient  history  lies  eight 
miles  to  the  southeastward  and  there  is  little  left  of 
it  save  a  massive  cathedral  tower  and  a  graceful 
bridge  half  hidden  in  the  jungle.  Sir  Henry  Morgan 
the  buccaneer  destroyed  this  former  city  in  1671. 
He  did  a  thorough  job,  leaving  hardly  one  stone  on 
another.  The  jungle  did  the  rest.  Yet  even  the 
jungle  did  not,  in  all  those  intervening  years,  ob- 
literate entirely  the  ancient  Spanish  road  over  which 
the  treasures  of  Peruvians  and  others  were  trans- 
ported to  the  waiting  galleons  of  the  Philips.  For 
the  bridge  is  a  part  of  that  old  original  thorough- 
fare across  the  Isthmus.  The  only  present  inhabit- 
ant of  Old  Panama  is  a  saloon  —  an  admirable  ad- 
junct to  picnic  parties  from  the  city.  Palms  wave  in 
the  wind,  and  the  Pacific  dimples  at  your  feet  as 
tranquilly  as  it  did  when  stout  Cortez  first  descried 
it  from  his  distant  peak  in  Darien. 

For  the  moment  the  world's  interest  in  the  Panama 
Canal  centers  in  the  Culebra  Cut  —  the  place  where 
the  great  ditch  cuts  through  the  continental  back- 


THE  RUINS,  OLD  PANAMA 


THE  ZONE  AND  THE  REPUBLIC      73 

bone  of  hill  and  mountain.  It  is  here  that  the  gigan- 
tic slides  of  earth  have  occurred,  resulting  in  the 
temporary  suspension  of  transit  by  water  through 
the  canal.  As  you  ride  along  in  the  train  —  which 
does  not  pass  very  near  Culebra  —  you  can  see  one  of 
the  hills  that  has  been  causing  trouble.  It  looks  pre- 
cisely like  a  great  mound  of  ice-cream,  into  which 
one  has  thrust  a  huge  knife  slicing  off  one  side. 
That  side  of  the  hill  has  slumped  down  a  bit  — 
and  then  stopped.  It  has  left  a  yellow  space  be- 
tween its  top  and  the  original  top  of  the  hill.  Pre- 
sumably it  will  eventually  drop  still  farther.  In  the 
process  it  has  either  slid  itself  into  the  channel  of 
the  canal  that  passes  below,  or  has  forced  the  earth 
in  the  bed  of  the  canal  upward.  There  have  been 
several  such  alterations  in  the  surface  at  various 
other  points  in  the  vicinity.  It  is  likely  that  there 
will  be  repeated  instances  of  it  —  until  the  condition 
of  the  terrain  is  such  that  the  land  can  remain 
permanently  at  rest.  How  long  that  will  be  no  one 
dares  to  predict. 

The  hope  of  the  engineers  is  that  the  conditions 
favorable  to  equilibrium  may  be  reached  before  very 
long.  There  is  presumably  a  natural  slope  which, 
when  finally  established,  will  suffice  to  prevent  fur- 
ther slipping  of  material.  One  is  familiar  with  the 
situation  presented  by  a  heap  of  sand.  If  you  bring 


74  SAILING  SOUTH 

up  a  fresh  barrow  of  sand  and  dump  it  on  the  pile, 
it  will  run  down  the  side  until  it  has  established  its 
appropriate  slope.  Then  it  will  stop.  Somewhat  the 
same  thing  may  be  seen  when  you  remove  a  shovel- 
ful of  coal  from  the  heap  remaining  in  your  bin,  in  the 
process  of  replenishing  the  furnace.  Eventually  you 
will  start  a  very  noisy  sort  of  slide,  comparable  in  its 
small  way  to  those  the  diggers  have  produced  in  the 
Culebra  Cut. 

In  the  case  of  the  cut  the  process  is  complicated  by 
the  fact  that  the  substrata  of  earth  and  rock  are  in 
places  soft  and  almost  liquidly  unstable.  It  is  said 
that  in  one  place  the  substratum  is  virtually  a  bed  of 
volcanic  mud  which  has  never  solidified.  As  the 
digging  progressed,  the  downward  pressure  of  the 
surrounding  hills  became  too  great  and  the  crust  gave 
way  beneath  them,  forcing  the  mud  upward  into 
the  bed  of  the  canal.  Hopefully  in  the  process  of 
digging,  this  inequality  of  competing  pressures  will 
be  removed  and  the  sliding  stopped. 

At  all  events,  the  engineers  propose  to  keep  right 
on  dredging  until  the  requisite  equilibrium  is  at- 
tained. I  talked  with  one  young  man  who  operated 
a  dredge  in  this  vicinity.  He  said  that  they  would 
often  dredge  along  their  section  leaving  behind  them 
a  channel  forty-five  feet  deep  —  and  then  would  re- 
turn only  to  find  it  filled  in  again  from  below  to  the 


THE  ZONE  AND  THE  REPUBLIC   75 

depth  of  only  a  dozen  feet.  But  they  keep  pegging 
away  at  it.  They  must.  Having  dug  away  so  much 
already,  they  can  always  dig  more.  They  can  dig 
it  all  away  if  they  have  to,  but  their  aim  is  simply  to 
bring  about  a  readjustment  in  the  geological  condi- 
tions such  as  will  satisfy  Dame  Nature.  Until  that 
is  done,  the  abrupt  sides  of  the  adjacent  mountains 
pierced  by  the  canal  will  frequently  shift  without 
even  the  intervention  of  any  earthquake  or  convul- 
sion of  Nature. 

But  what  a  glorious  thing  it  will  be  when  it  is 
completely  done!  And  what  an  obligation  upon  us 
to  defend  it  and  keep  it  forever  open  as  a  peaceful 
servant  of  God's  world!  It  has  been  a  gigantic  task, 
the  obstacles  in  the  path  of  which  are  by  no  means  all 
removed.  One  recalls  the  ancient  story  of  the  attempt 
to  cut  a  canal  at  Cnidus,  where  the  particles  of  rock 
from  the  chisels  blinded  the  workmen's  eyes  and  led 
to  a  consultation  of  the  oracle.  They  got  this  answer: 

"Seek  not  to  make  a  channel,  nor  dig  the  isthmus  through; 
Zeus  would  have  made  your  land  an  island,  had  it  pleased  him 
so  to  do." 

Suppose  some  worthy  but  old-fashioned  person 
like  Mr.  Bryan  had  sent  to  some  modern  Delphi 
on  learning  of  the  slides  at  Panama,  and  been  told 
that  "God  would  have  made  the  United  States  an 
island  if  he  had  wanted  it  done  " !  Do  you  suppose  he 
would  have  been  so  impious  as  to  pursue  the  work? 


CHAPTER  VI 
A  PANAMANIAN  INTERLUDE 

FROM  Cristobal  the  cruising  steamers  take 
either  one  of  two  routes.  Part  of  them  turn  east- 
ward and  seek  the  northern  ports  of  South  America. 
The  rest  turn  westward  along  the  shore  of  Panama 
and  ultimately  arrive  at  Port  Limon,  the  principal 
port  of  Costa  Rica,  with  possibly  a  call  at  the  way- 
stations  of  Bocas  del  Toro  and  Almirante.  It  de- 
veloped that  the  latter  was  to  be  our  portion  — 
for  which  I  was  not  sorry,  as  it  gave  us  the  only 
possible  view  of  the  Republic  of  Panama,  aside  from 
what  one  may  see  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the 
Zone.  For  travel  in  Panama  is  by  no  means  easy. 
None  of  these  tropical  republics  can  claim  to  be 
provided  with  highways.  Trails  through  the  wooded 
hills,  navigable  only  on  muleback,  or  chance  rivers 
where  one  may  use  a  small  power  boat,  appear  to 
afford  the  only  means  of  locomotion  when  the 
presidente  makes  an  official  progress  through  his 
domains. 

Nevertheless  this  republic  is  no  inconsiderable 
country.  It  is  something  like  four  hundred  miles 
long,  and  at  its  very  widest  it  is  n't  more  than  one 


A  PANAMANIAN  INTERLUDE         77 

hundred  miles  wide.  Its  total  area  is  around  thirty- 
two  thousand  square  miles.  As  an  independent 
political  unit  Panama  dates  officially  from  1904, 
following  the  abrupt  revolution  which  Colombia 
always  insisted  the  Roosevelt  Administration  had 
covertly  engineered.  As  a  known  part  of  the  earth, 
however,  Panama  surpasses  most  of  us.  Columbus 
landed  there  in  1502;  and  of  course  the  curious 
geographical  situation  at  the  narrowest  part  of  the 
neck  joining  the  two  continents  made  the  region  of 
"Darien"  a  natural  center  for  the  traffic  which 
Spain  entered  upon  in  her  quest  for  precious  min- 
erals in  the  New  World.  Despite  various  abortive 
efforts  at  setting  up  an  independent  Isthmian  re- 
public, Panama  continued  for  the  most  part  an 
isolated  appendage  of  Colombia  down  to  the  time 
when  the  Americans  seriously  undertook  the  project 
of  digging  the  canal. 

At  that  juncture,  possibly  because  the  people  of 
Panama  felt  that  the  Colombian  authorities  were  in 
danger  of  throwing  away  their  chances  by  undue 
haggling  over  canal  terms,  revolution  broke  out 
and  an  independent  government  was  hastily  pro- 
claimed. This  was  on  the  3d  of  November,  1903. 
With  a  haste  which  Colombia  has  always  argued 
was  unseemly  and  indicative  of  a  potential  col- 
lusion, the  United  States  recognized  this  new 


78  SAILING  SOUTH 

government  November  6.  In  fact  derisive  critics 
have  intimated  that  this  recognition  came  very 
near  to  antedating  the  actual  revolution!  At  all 
events,  the  Republic  of  Panama  was  abruptly  born 
and  was  abruptly  organized  —  and  even  France 
accorded  it  an  official  recognition  within  four  days 
after  independence  had  been  formally  recognized  in 
Washington.  Nor  was  this  speed  without  precedent. 
Brazil's  independent  government  was  recognized 
within  two  days  after  its  declaration.  One  is  prone 
to  conclude  that  while  the  upheaval  in  Panama 
was  not  unexpected  by  Washington,  it  was  perfectly 
genuine  and  was  by  no  means  the  first  movement 
of  its  kind.  In  one  argument  it  has  also  been  de- 
fended as  a  mere  "resumption  of  independence" 
from  one  of  the  former  efforts  in  the  same  direction. 
Provocation  for  the  step  was  abundant.  Colom- 
bia had  been  negotiating  for  the  building  of  a 
canal  by  the  United  States  and  an  arrangement, 
supposed  to  be  mutually  satisfactory,  had  been 
made.  In  the  meantime  a  determined  effort  of  a 
rival  nature  was  being  made  to  locate  the  prospec- 
tive canal  in  Nicaragua.  The  Colombian  Govern- 
ment, possibly  believing  that  the  bid  for  the  con- 
cession would  be  raised,  suddenly  turned  about, 
refused  to  ratify  the  treaty  already  negotiated,  and 
adjourned.  It  was  this  which  precipitated  the  re- 


A  PANAMANIAN  INTERLUDE         79 

volt  in  Panama,  which  province  had  never  greatly 
loved  Colombia  at  best  and  which  now  saw  a 
chance  that  the  canal  would  go  to  Nicaragua  after 
it  was  almost  in  her  grasp,  It  happened  that  an 
energetic  American  was  at  that  time  President  of 
the  United  States,  to  whom  the  necessity  of  assail- 
ing the  isthmian  problem  was  apparent.  It  was 
done  —  and  on  the  whole  it  is  hard  to  regret  it, 
although  Colombia's  plea  for  recompense  has  com- 
manded sympathy. 

At  present,  then,  the  Republic  of  Panama  is  a 
perfectly  recognized  member  of  the  family  of  na- 
tions —  cut  in  twain  at  the  waist  by  the  Canal 
Zone.  The  government  vests  in  a  president,  chosen 
by  direct  popular  vote  for  a  term  of  four  years, 
and  assisted  by  a  cabinet  of  five.  There  is  a  legis- 
lature composed  of  a  single  house  which  meets 
regularly  on  a  biennial  basis.  Eight  provinces  are 
comprised  in  the  republic,  each  province  having  its 
governor.  Industrially  speaking,  the  chief  products 
are  bananas,  cocoanuts,  sugar  cane,  and  various 
other  tropical  woods  and  fruits.  Curiously  enough, 
the  so-called  "Panama"  hat  seems  to  be  made  in 
its  best  estate  in  other,  but  adjacent,  countries. 

So  much  of  didacticism  I  trust  I  may  be  pardoned 
before  taking  up  the  tale  of  further  venturings  in 
the  outskirts  of  this  ancient  but  still  juvenile 


8o  SAILING  SOUTH 

country.  A  little  of  it  we  had  seen  in  the  brief  drive 
out  toward  the  ruins  of  Old  Panama.  It  remained 
to  take  the  railroad  once  more  back  to  the  Atlantic 
side  where  the  ship  was  announced  as  ready  to 
sail. 

With  the  arrival  of  the  evening  train  from  Pan- 
ama, the  steamer  prepared  to  go.  There  was  some 
delay  because  Mrs.  X.,  who  was  gayly  turned  out 
with  her  twenty-fifth  new  gown  and  fifth  new  hat, 
could  n't  be  located  at  all  among  the  passengers. 
It  was  discovered  by  telephone  that  she  was  at 
the  Hotel  Washington  and  had  just  ordered  some 
potage  supreme  d,  la  Miraflores  with  the  idea  of  din- 
ing in  great  content  ashore.  Frenzied  emissaries 
from  the  ship  tore  her  away  from  the  table,  and 
the  gangplank  rose  behind  her  heels.  We  were  off. 

However,  we  did  n't  go  far.  Late  in  the  warm 
evening,  as  we  all  lounged  on  deck  sipping  lemon- 
ade and  smoking  the  spoils  of  Havana,  some  one 
remarked  that  we  seemed  to  be  going  very  slowly, 
and  some  one  else  who  looked  over  the  side  an- 
nounced that  we  were  not  going  at  all.  The  chief 
engineer  showed  a  head  over  the  stairway;  and  the 
captain,  who  had  just  been  giving  us  some  super- 
heated views  of  the  Great  War,  promptly  dived 
down  the  companionway  after  him.  The  rest  of 
us  "  looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise."  It 


A  PANAMANIAN  INTERLUDE         81 

was  evident  that  something  had  gone  wrong  below. 
The  captain  on  his  return  merely  remarked  that, 
at  all  events,  it  was  n't  a  submarine  and  disap- 
peared once  more  with  a  reassuring  grin.  The 
while  there  arose  from  the  depths  of  the  ship  the 
sound  of  hammers,  and  occasionally  a  voice  raised 
in  supplication  for  the  immediate  condemnation 
from  on  high  of  something  that  apparently  was  n't 
working  right  in  the  engine-room.  Possibly  they 
were  shipping  a  new  tire.  It  sounded  that  way. 
One  by  one  the  feminine  passengers  faded  away 
with  affected  nonchalance  to  their  cabins,  while  the 
men  gathered  in  quiet  little  knots,  with  equally 
affected  nonchalance,  secretly  wondering  whether, 
if  we  had  to  take  to  the  boats,  they  would  be  seen  to 
be  brave.  Fortunately  the  sea  was  like  glass,  and 
we  were  n't  more  than  thirty  miles  off  Cristobal, 
anyhow.  At  this  point  the  tinkle  of  the  engine- 
telegraph  was  heard  and  shortly  the  reassuring 
thud  of  the  propellers.  Gayety  returned,  more 
lemonade  was  ordered,  more  cigars.  What  more 
delicious  on  the  last  night  of  February  than  to  be 
sitting  in  spotless  pongee  clothing,  on  a  spotless 
deck,  surrounded  by  creature  comforts,  fair  women 
and  brave  men,  with  stars  of  unwonted  brilliancy 
beaming  overhead? 
Eight  bells  the  next  morning  —  one  of  the  times 


82  SAILING  SOUTH 

when  the  ship's  bells  consent  to  toll  an  hour  that 
is  easily  understood  by  landsmen  —  found  us  ap- 
proaching the  shore  again  at  the  extreme  north- 
western end  of  the  Republic  of  Panama  —  a  won- 
derful shore  that  looked  as  if  it  had  stepped  out 
of  a  story-book.  The  misty  mountains  far  inland 
looked  just  like  any  mountains  elsewhere;  but  the 
immediate  foreground,  with  its  strip  of  yellow  sand 
followed  immediately  by  the  dense  growth  of  the 
tropic  jungle,  satisfied  every  requirement  of  the 
fancy  as  the  setting  for  O.  Henry's  "Cabbages  and 
Kings,"  or  "Treasure  Island,"  or  any  of  those 
delightful  whimsies. 

One  or  two  rocks,  fantastically  carved  by  cen- 
turies of  wind  and  wave,  stood  up  out  of  the  water 
off  the  point.  A  palm-clad  island  lay  just  before. 
Between  it  and  a  jutting  lowland  appeared  an  inlet 
which,  on  nearer  view,  was  seen  to  broaden  to  a 
vast  enclosed  lagoon.  This  was  Bocas  del  Toro.  I 
speak  subject  to  correction,  but  I  think  that  means 
"Mouth  of  the  Bull."  My  Spanish,  never  very 
fluent,  is  terribly  rusty  in  these  days  of  prolonged 
disuse.  I  tried  it  on  various  persons  in  Panama, 
but  they  were  unmoved.  I  oiled  it  up  again  later 
and  used  it  a  bit  in  San  Jose,  but  with  only  a  quali- 
fied success.  There  seems  to  be  something  wrong 
with  my  pronunciation.  Perhaps  it  is  too  truly 


A  PANAMANIAN  INTERLUDE         83 

Castilian  for  the  degenerate  dialects  of  the  Central 
Americas! 

As  the  lagoon  opened  out,  it  revealed  new  beau- 
ties, the  chief  of  which  lay  in  the  wondrous  extent 
of  this  sheltered  bay  with  its  numerous  islands  — 
all  story-book  islands  —  and  its  immediately  sur- 
rounding hills  covered  with  dense  jungle.  Here  we 
dropped  anchor,  with  the  background  of  tropical 
verdure  all  about.  The  island  that  served  nearly  to 
fill  the  entrance  from  the  sea  was,  I  later  learned, 
the  very  one  upon  which  Columbus,  after  one  of  his 
voyages,  careened  his  ships  in  order  to  scrape  their 
barnacled  bottoms;  wherefore  to  this  day  it  bears 
the  name  of  Careening  Key. 

A  few  hundred  yards  away  lay  the  hamlet  of 
Bocas  del  Toro,  attractive  enough  when  seen  from 
the  distance,  but  rather  obviously  composed  of 
houses  of  corrugated  iron.  Corrugated  iron  is  the 
favorite  building  material  in  these  parts.  They 
seldom  bother  to  paint  it.  It  has  the  merit  of  being 
durable  and  waterproof,  and  above  all  of  not 
splintering  to  bits  in  the  average  earthquake  — 
which  is  highly  important  in  a  land  where  the  earth 
is  trembling  a  large  part  of  the  time.  The  captain 
said  there  would  be  a  launch  along  by-and-by  to 
take  those  ashore  who  wished  a  nearer  view;  but 
by  this  time  I  was  in  confidential  relations  with 


84  SAILING  SOUTH 

him  and  he  gave  me  a  private  and  personal  hint 
that  I  'd  much  better  remain  aboard  ship  where  it 
was  cool,  and  incidentally  save  a  half-dollar.  His 
opinion  was  that  "all  these  towns  looked  their 
level  best  over  the  stern  of  the  steamer  as  you  were 
going  away." 

Meanwhile  we  became  aware  of  a  piratical-look- 
ing sloop  bearing  down  upon  us,  all  loaded  down 
with  gypsy  men.  I  never  saw  more  human  beings 
crowded  on  a  smaller  craft.  They  were  all  standing, 
because  there  was  no  room  to  do  anything  else. 
Elevated  above  them  was  a  single  figure  • —  a  man, 
who  was  apparently  making  an  impassioned  speech. 
He  waved  his  arms  and  gesticulated  madly.  All 
Spanish  peoples  are  born  with  the  oratorical  gift, 
and  this  representative  of  the  race  had  it  abun- 
dantly. At  regular  intervals  his  harangue  was  in- 
terrupted by  his  auditors  with  a  staccato  cheer. 
The  effect  was  like  this: 

"Gabble,  gabble,  gabble,  gabble—  " 

"ViVA!" 

"Gabble,  gabble,  gabble,  gabble —  " 

"VIVA!" 

It  appeared  that  it  was  a  political  meeting.  There 
was  pending  what  passes  in  Panama  for  a  presi- 
dential election,  and  there  was  in  town  a  delegate 
representing  the  aspirations  of  one  of  the  national 


A  PANAMANIAN  INTERLUDE         85 

candidates.  His  devoted  adherents  were  seeing 
him  off  and  were  punctuating  his  remarks  with 
whole-hearted  "Vivas"  that  presaged  victory  and  a 
triumph  for  the  right.  This  craft,  with  its  motley 
but  vocal  company,  circled  round  and  round  the 
steamer.  Meantime  the  speech  never  faltered.  The 
"Vivas"  came  with  faithful  regularity.  And  when 
speaking's  best  was  done,  to  the  band  they  left  the 
rest  —  a  wonderful  band  of  three  pieces. 

Its  music  left  much  to  be  desired  —  but  after  all 
it  was  better  than  "the  professor's."  The  pro- 
fessor —  so  dubbed  by  the  Mogul  —  came  aboard 
our  craft  the  night  before,  at  Cristobal.  He  was  a 
flamboyant  darkey,  dressed  in  those  indescribable 
blue  clothes  that  his  race  delights  in,  and  possessed 
of  an  insatiable  desire  to  manipulate  the  keys  of 
the  ship's  hard-worn  piano.  I  suppose  he  slept  a 
few  hours  at  some  time  during  the  night;  but  all 
the  rest  of  the  time  he  was  seated  in  what  the  ship's 
plan  persisted  in  calling  the  "Music-Room,"  ham- 
mering a  long-suffering  upright  that  had  weathered 
many  a  gale  and  evidently  felt  it.  With  unabated 
zeal  he  tore  from  the  depths  of  the  unresisting  in- 
strument that  curious  brand  of  melody  that  seems 
to  be  sacred  to  the  uses  of  the  moving-picture 
shows.  In  self-defense  the  passengers  had  taken  the 
wings  of  the  morning  and  dwelt  in  the  uttermost 


86  SAILING  SOUTH 

parts  of  the  ship  —  only  to  be  assailed  anew  with 
the  strains  of  a  tuba,  a  snare  drum,  and  a  flageolet, 
playing  what  may  well  have  been  the  Panamanian 
national  hymn,  although  it  may  be  that  in  this 
latter  assumption  I  am  doing  a  serious  injustice  to 
a  great  and  friendly  people. 

Those  who  were  going  ashore  doubtless  had  to 
see  some  sort  of  a  doctor,  and  I  trembled  lest  the 
medical  authority  overhear  the  "professor"  at  his 
devastating  worst  and  deny  him  his  exequatur1 — 
or  imprimatur,  or  exeat,  or  whatever  it  is  they  re- 
quire as  a  credential  —  on  the  score  of  his  incurable 
appetite  for  ragtime.  But  he  appeared  at  last,  re- 
splendent in  all  his  finery,  and  got  into  the  shore 
launch  unrestrained.  We  were  safe  —  except  that 
the  pessimistic  Mogul  apprehended  he  was  "only 
getting  off  there  for  the  day"  and  would  rejoin  us 
when  we  came  back  again  from  the  other  end  of  the 
lagoon  at  night.  Some  one  is  always  taking  the  joy 
out  of  life! 

•  Those  who  took  the  trip  to  the  shore  and  return 
came  back  very  hot  and  by  no  means  impressed  by 
Bocas  as  a  City  Beautiful.  They  did  not  even  at- 
tempt to  crow  over  those  of  us  who  had  stayed 
aboard  and  kept  fairly  cool.  Instead  they  sank  into 
chairs  and  ordered  things  from  the  smoke-room 
bar  —  for  Bocas  had  no  silly  rule  imposing  a  fine 


A  PANAMANIAN  INTERLUDE         87 

of  one  thousand  dollars  on  ships  that  pass  if  they 
happen  to  open  the  ice-chest  to  the  seeker  after 
humectants. 

Innumerable  bags  of  cocoa  were  being  tucked 
away  in  the  hold  while  we  lay  basking  under  the 
tropic  sun.  They  were  loaded  by  hand,  by  Carib 
negroes.  Candor  compels  me  to  confess  that  the 
Carib  negro  is  not  a  dynamo  of  energy.  Three 
heavy  bags  and  then  a  whole  rest  seems  to  be  the 
way  his  symphony  is  scored.  However,  we  should 
not  blame  him.  If  we  lived  in  a  town  where  it 
never  gets  lower  than  85°  and  frequently  more 
than  92°  in  the  shade,  summer  or  winter,  we  should 
probably  be  somewhat  less  industrious  than  we 
are. 

Eventually  the  last  sack  was  put  in,  the  anchor 
camemuddily  up,  the  propellers  turned  again — and 
we  steamed  off  up  the  ever-narrowing  bay  a  dozen 
miles  more  to  the  banana  settlement  of  Almirante. 
Once  again  subject  to  correction,  I  affirm  that  this 
means  "Admiral."  I  suspect  that  it  belongs,  body, 
soul,  and  spirit,  to  the  United  Fruit  Company.  It 
has  too  trim  and  prosperous  a  look  to  belong  to 
anybody  else,  and  there  was  an  array  of  nice-look- 
ing college  boys  on  the  dock,  who  had  all  the  ear- 
marks of  being  employed  by  the  fruit  corporation. 
The  sight  of  these  clean  and  alert  young  fellows 


88  SAILING  SOUTH 

in  shirt-sleeves  gladdened  me.  They  appeared  to 
advantage  against  the  general  shiftlessness  of  the 
native-born. 

Almirante  itself  is  n't  much  to  see.  There  is  no 
visible  town.  To  be  sure,  there  is  a  toy  railroad 
which  penetrates  the  wilderness  and  collects  ba- 
nanas for  a  living;  but  at  the  moment  it  wasn't 
working.  Our  ship's  mission  there  was  not  to  be 
ministered  unto,  but  to  minister.  In  other  words, 
we  had  brought  a  deckload  of  steel  rods  and  bars 
to  be  delivered  at  this  port,  as  well  as  innumerable 
boxes  of  tomato  catsup,  barrels  which  from  their 
labels  I  suspect  contained  bottled  beer,  and  other 
provender  essential  to  the  upkeep  of  a  hard-working 
force  of  healthy  young  men  in  a  tropic  clime.  The 
steel  rods  took  the  longest.  I  timed  the  Carib  boys 
who  handled  them,  and  discovered  that  from  the 
time  a  steel  rod  was  first  lifted  to  the  moment  of  its 
ultimate  deposit  on  the  near-by  handcar  there  regu- 
larly elapsed  one  minute,  twelve  and  two-fifths 
seconds.  There  were  perhaps  six  hundred  rods. 
Now,  Johnnie,  at  what  hour  did  the  steamer  leave 
Almirante?  Take  your  time! 

Oh,  no!  of  course!  How  stupid  of  me!  I  could  n't 
expect  you  to  answer  that  correctly  because  I  for- 
got to  tell  you  what  time  the  unloading  started. 
Well,  never  mind!  We  didn't  in  fact  leave  until 


A  PANAMANIAN  INTERLUDE         89 

nearly  eight,  when  it  was  as  dark  in  the  lagoon  as 
the  inside  of  an  infidel.  The  jungle  hills  of  the  sur- 
rounding land  faded  out  until  they  looked  just  like 
any  other  hills.  At  last  even  the  hills  sank  back 
into  the  dark.  But  the  boat  managed  to  find  her 
way  out  into  the  bay  again,  and  in  the  course  of  an 
hour  we  had  picked  up  once  more  the  garish  lights 
of  Bocas  del  Toro  —  quite  a  town,  if  you  see  it  in 
the  evening.  The  beauty  and  chivalry  of  the  place 
came  out  in  boats  to  see  us  and  enliven  an  other- 
wise uneventful  day.  A  lighter  also  drew  alongside 
and  bestowed  upon  us  a  few  more  sacks  of  cocoa 
to  take  home. 

All  the  while  the  Mogul  hung  expectantly  over 
the  gangway  scrutinizing  every  person  who  came 
aboard  with  the  avowed  expectation  of  seeing  the 
musical  "professor"  return.  The  suspense  was 
awful.  However,  at  the  end  the  whistle  blew,  the 
visitors  were  ordered  ashore,  the  launches  departed, 
the  gangplank  was  drawn  up  —  and  we  began  once 
again  to  move.  The  "professor"  had  not  come 
back. 

"Thank  God,"  said  the  Mogul. 


CHAPTER  VII 
IN  COSTA  RICA 

AT  dawn  we  were  abreast  of  Port  Limon,  and 
by  breakfast-time  were  made  fast  to  a  pre- 
carious-looking pier  which  thrust  its  way  out  to 
sea.  The  incoming  breakers  spent  themselves  be- 
yond, but  the  pulsations  of  the  ocean  made  the 
vessel  rise  and  fall  spasmodically  at  her  dock,  chaf- 
ing the  fenders  and  causing  some  speculation  as  to 
whether  the  numerous  ropes  which  made  her  fast 
would  last  all  day. 

It  was  our  uttermost  port  of  call,  but  it  was 
destined  to  be  a  sojourn  reasonably  prolonged  and 
sufficient  to  give  all  hands  a  chance  for  pilgrimage 
into  the  remote  interior  of  Costa  Rica.1 

1  Costa  Rica  is  a  republic  lying  between  Nicaragua  and  Panama, 
containing  about  22,000  square  miles  and  divided  into  seven  prov- 
inces, with  a  total  population  of  about  half  a  million.  Owing  to  the 
great  differences  in  altitude  due  to  the  highly  mountainous  character 
of  the  country,  climatic  conditions  and  vegetation  are  remarkably 
varied.  The  loftiest  peaks  are  well  over  11,000  feet,  and  at  least  four 
of  these  mountains  are  still  actively  volcanic  at  infrequent  periods. 
The  original  settlement  of  Costa  Rica  as  a  colony  of  Spain  was  made 
in  1540;  and  down  practically  to  1821  its  existence  was  perhaps  the 
most  wretchedly  miserable  among  many  such  colonies  in  Spanish 
possessions.  In  the  year  last  mentioned,  Costa  Rica  traded  her 
dependence  upon  Spain  for  voluntary  dependence  upon  Mexico  — 
and  still  later  formed  one  of  a  congeries  of  weak  Central  American 


IN  COSTA  RICA  91 

The  literature  di&pensed  by  the  United  Fruit 
Company  invites  you  to  believe  that  the  name  of 
Port  Limon  signifies  "citrus  fruits."  This  seems 
to  me  an  unworthy  attempt  to  disguise  by  a  eu- 
phemism the  fact  that  it  really  means  "Port 
Lemon."  Why  not  face  the  truth? 

To  be  sure,  the  name  of  "lemon"  has  of  recent 
years  tended  to  a  certain  derisive  use,  but  that 
need  not  divert  us  from  an  admiration  for  the  use- 
ful fruit  —  companion  of  our  summer  joys  and 
alleviator  of  our  winter  ills.  Undoubtedly  the 
lemon  is  a  sour  thing,  especially  after  it  has  been 
kept.  Right  off  the  tree  it  is  not  half  bad.  Besides, 
I  do  not  now  recall  that  I  saw  a  single  lemon  grow- 
ing in  Costa  Rica,  whereof  Port  Limon  is  an  im- 
portant eastern  outlet.  But  that  does  n't  prove 
that  there  are  no  lempn  groves  there. 

I  am  not  so  sure  that  Port  Limon  comes  by  its 

states  unconnected  with  the  Mexican  rule;  but  in  1830  complete 
independence  was  established,  and  since  that  time,  largely  because  of 
the  intelligent  fostering  of  banana  culture  by  American  capital,  the 
prosperity  of  the  land  has  immeasurably  increased.  It  is  the  boast 
of  Costa  Ricans  that  their  political  system  has  been  less  the  subject  of 
revolutionary  change  than  is  true  in  some  of  the  neighboring  coun- 
tries; but  it  is  to  be  recorded  that  the  president  mentioned  in  the 
following  pages  was  ousted  by  proceedings  more  or  less  revolutionary, 
though  bloodless,  in  1917,  leaving  the  world  in  some  doubt  as  to  the 
actual  stability  of  republican  government  there.  There  is  a  single- 
chamber  Congress  of  forty-three  members,  and  the  president,  theo- 
retically, holds  for  a  four-year  term.  Bananas,  cocoa,  coffee,  hides, 
lumber,  and  some  precious  ores  form  the  bulk  of  the  exports. 


92  SAILING  SOUTH 

name  without  certain  other  reasons.  As  a  harbor 
it  leaves  much  to  be  desired.  It  is  not  exactly  a 
harbor,  anyway.  A  point  of  land  and  a  rather  im- 
mature island  afford  all  the  shelter  there  is,  and 
under  the  impulse  of  the  northeast  trade  there  is 
generally  a  heavy  swell  running  into  the  bay,  which 
makes  the  steamers  heave  and  strain  at  their 
hawsers  even  when  made  fast  to  the  pier.  I  have 
seen  better  protected  anchorages  than  those  af- 
forded by  the  roadstead  off  Limon.  However,  we 
must  take  creation  as  it  is  handed  over  to  us.  Limon 
is  the  eastern  terminus  of  the  transcontinental 
railroad  system  of  Costa  Rica  —  total  length  of 
said  system  about  two  hundred  miles.  From  what 
I  hear,  Limon  is  a  good  deal  nicer  place  than  is  the 
Pacific  terminal,  Punta  Arenas  (Sandy  Point). 

Away  down  there  in  the  tropics,  say  ten  degrees 
north  of  the  Equator,  it  is  bound  to  be  hot  all  the 
year  round.  Limon  is  usually  cooking,  steaming 
hot.  We  found  it  so  even  at  nine  in  the  morning 
when  we  descended  the  ship's  side  and  walked  a 
quarter-mile  along  the  cement  docks  to  reach  the 
mainland  proper.  A  sunshade  was  in  order,  and  as 
Xenophon  observed  during  the  celebrated  march 
of  the  Ten  Thousand,  "it  was  for  a  protection  if 
one  journeyed  with  something  black  before  his 
eyes."  The  sun  glared  down  on  the  concrete  and 


IN  COSTA  RICA  93 

shimmered  from  the  inevitable  corrugated  iron 
roofs.  But  once  the  town  was  reached,  there  ap- 
peared a  marvelous  little  park,  hard  by  the  sea,  in 
the  depths  of  which  there  was  darkness  and  cool 
shade.  After  the  long  and  torrid  promenade  along 
the  wharves  this,  to  quote  Browning's  Croisic  pilot, 
was  "Paradise  for  Hell."  The  ladies  of  the  party 
disappeared  into  the  welcome  shadow  of  the  palms 
and  eucalypti  with  shrill  psalms  of  delight.  For  the 
men  there  was  a  man's  work  to  be  done  in  the  way 
of  buying  railroad  tickets  for  the  journey  up  to 
San  Jos£. 

I  should  explain  that  Costa  Rica  is  the  next 
country  west  of  the  Republic  of  Panama,  occupying 
the  entire  continent  —  or  what  remains  of  it  at 
that  point  — •  between  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific.  It 
is  a  bit  wider  than  the  Isthmus,  but  still  not  ter- 
ribly wide.  What  it  lacks  in  breadth,  however,  it 
makes  up  in  thickness.  It  boasts  a  stretch  of 
coastal  plain  on  either  sea,  and  then  rises  abruptly 
into  mountains  that  richly  deserve  the  name.  In- 
domitable industry  —  personified  by  the  Fruit 
Company  in  this  case  —  has  constructed  a  railroad 
leading  up  from  the  coast  into  the  upland  of  the 
interior;  and  indomitable  perseverance  —  also  per- 
sonified by  the  United  Fruit  —  keeps  the  railroad 
there.  This  is  no  light  task  in  a  country  where 


94  SAILING  SOUTH 

earthquakes  are  common  and  rainy  seasons  preva- 
lent; for  the  railroad  follows  a  river  bottom  up  the 
steep  sides  of  a  trio  of  volcanic  peaks,  and  it  is  sub- 
ject to  vehement  changes  of  grade  without  notice. 
Washouts  are  the  chief  trouble,  as  at  some  seasons 
they  are  of  almost  daily  occurrence.  Now  and 
again  transit  is  interrupted  for  weeks  at  a  time. 
The  journey  of  one  hundred  and  seven  miles  from 
Limon  to  San  Jos6  requires  about  six  hours. 

Now  the  good  ship  Metapan  was  due  to  lie  at 
Limon  four  days  loading  bananas  for  the  people  of 
the  United  States;  and  as  no  one  who  could  help  it 
wanted  to  stick  around  and  bake  in  Limon  for  so 
long  a  time,  the  ship's  company  all  sought  the  rail- 
road station  in  a  body.  The  ticket-office,  of  course, 
was  not  open.  If  you  have  had  experience  with 
Spanish  countries  you  would  know  that  without  my 
telling  you.  In  Spain  the  ticket-seller  opens  his 
wicket  about  fifteen  minutes  before  the  train  is 
due  to  leave,  and  no  sooner,  even  if  he  knows  there 
is  a  file  outside  as  long  as  the  breadline,  or  a  queue 
waiting  to  buy  tickets  for  the  World's  Series. 
Wherefore,  as  I  said,  there  was  a  man's  work  to  be 
done.  The  Mogul  and  I  deployed  stragetically,  and 
let  the  line  form.  I  hunted  around  the  depot  plat- 
form until  I  had  located  a  most  obliging  young  man 
of  American  appearance  who  said  he  would  tele- 


IN  THE  BANANA  COUNTRY 


IN  COSTA  RICA  95 

phone  inside  to  the  ticket-agent  and  arrange  for 
our  seats  in  the  observation  car.  The  Mogul,  his 
pockets  full  of  letters  to  the  local  authorities,  had 
meantime  disappeared  in  the  head  office  of  the 
company.  It  was  he  who  did  the  real  business;  for 
presently  he  emerged  tattooed  all  over  with  the 
courtesies  of  the  road,  the  freedom  of  this  and  all 
other  cities,  an  assurance  of  rooms  in  San  Jose's 
leading  hotels,  a  prospect  of  personal  introduction 
to  the  President  of  the  Republic,  and  the  comfort- 
able knowledge  that  for  to-day  at  least  neither  his 
money  nor  mine  was  any  good  whatever.  No  one 
would  take  it.  Not  without  reason  do  I  refer  to 
him  as  the  Mogul. 

Then  the  train  backed  in.  If  the  railroad  at 
Panama  had  been  wider  than  any  road  I  ever  saw 
before,  this  one  was  narrower  than  most.  The  rails 
were  one  yard  apart.  It  resembled  very  much  to 
the  eye  the  railroad  that  runs  down  to  Revere  Beach 
and  Lynn,  and  I  heard  the  conductor  address  the 
engineer  by  the  highly  Oriental  name  of  Mike. 
There  was  an  immediate  and  perspiring  rush  for 
the  cars.  There  was  a  jumble  of  suitcases,  porters, 
and  passengers  in  the  narrow  aisles.  Yet  by  some 
magic  the  snarl  was  all  untangled  and  we  were  per- 
fectly ready  to  go  not  more  than  five  minutes  after 
the  scheduled  hour  for  starting.  A  momentary 


96  SAILING  SOUTH 

confusion,  indeed,  was  caused  by  the  announce- 
ment that  Verdun  had  fallen  —  because  one  of  the 
party  was  a  French  patriot  and  fainted  away  at 
the  news.  But  when  a  breathless  young  man  a 
moment  later  dashed  in  with  the  glad  news  that 
this  report  was  untrue,  he  revived;  and  the  train 
clacked  out  of  the  yard  headed  for  the  hills. 

For  perhaps  twenty-five  miles  the  railroad  ran 
through  a  riotously  fertile  plain  given  over  to 
banana  culture.  For  a  considerable  proportion  of 
the  way  the  line  skirted  the  sea.  To  the  right, 
rows  of  enormous  breakers  rushed  rank  after  rank 
upon  the  beach  and  roared  in  foam  almost  up  to 
the  line  of  rails.  To  the  left  was  the  density  of  the 
jungle,  broken  here  and  there  by  clearings.  Ba- 
nanas were  everywhere.  On  the  whole  the  banana 
tree  is  not  a  tidy  one.  Its  broad  leaves  break  off 
and  turn  brown.  The  fruit  itself  is  usually  a  nau- 
seous green  —  for  bananas  are  never  shipped  ripe 
and  those  that  ripen  on  the  tree  for  local  con- 
sumption are  not  noticeably  numerous,  and  in- 
deed are  inferior  in  flavor.  However,  I  wish  to  say 
here  and  now,  before  I  forget  it,  that  one  who  has 
never  eaten  bananas  that  have  at  least  ripened  on 
their  native  heath  has  never  really  eaten  the  food 
that  the  gods  must  live  upon. 

A  tattered  darkey  hung  precariously  to  the  outer 


IN  COSTA  RICA  97 

edge  of  the  rear  observation  platform  as  the  train 
clattered  up  the  line,  his  mouth  full  of  bits  of  paper. 
Now  and  again  he  cast  one  of  these  into  the  dust 
behind  us.  It  was  as  if  he  expected  to  leave  a  clue 
for  the  uses  of  a  game  of  hare-and-hounds.  Ex- 
amination revealed,  however,  that  these  bits  of 
paper  were  notices  to  the  local  planters  that  the 
Metapan  would  take  all  the  bananas  they  would 
bring  to  the  wharf  on  the  following  Friday.  This 
haphazard  general  notice  appeared  to  be  the  regular 
thing,  for  repeatedly  figures  emerged  from  the 
undergrowth  and  gathered  the  papers  in. 

Periodically  the  train  rattled  through  a  wayside 
town.  These  towns  were  all  alike.  There  was  no 
street,  save  that  afforded  by  the  railroad.  The 
houses  —  little  more  than  shacks  —  stood  in  a 
single  file  on  either  side.  Negroes,  presumably 
from  Jamaica,  inhabited  them.  All  the  houses 
stood  on  stilts,  as  in  Panama.  Occasionally  would 
flash  by  a  tiny  "cantina,"  where  liquid  refresh- 
ment was  dispensed,  usually  bearing  a  pious  name 
like  "Madre  de  Dios"  (Mother  of  God)  after  the 
Spanish  fashion  —  or  else  "The  Purified  Martyrs," 
or  "Nombre  de  Dios,"  or  something  equally  im- 
pressive. The  nomenclature  of  the  Latin  saloon  is 
as  pietistic  as  you  can  imagine. 

The  observation  car  on  the  single  daily  train  — 


98  SAILING  SOUTH 

there  is  but  one  —  holds  itself  out  to  a  deluded 
world  as  a  "buffet"  car.  I  had  visions  of  broiled 
chicken,  or  deviled  ham  sandwiches,  and  such  viands 
—  but  later  had  occasion  to  be  glad  that  we  had 
brought  some  food  along  from  the  ship.  The 
"buffet"  in  that  car  consists  entirely  of  an  ice- 
tank,  in  which  is  a  limited  supply  of  White  Rock, 
ginger  ale,  and  a  few  bottles  of  beer.  Along  about 
eleven  o'clock  the  conductor  comes  by  and  whispers 
that  the  next  junction  (named  by  the  Mogul, 
"Banana  Split")  will  afford  a  chance  to  alight  and 
secure  a  real  luncheon  —  the  train  halting  there 
for  ten  gormandizing  minutes.  He  can  provide  you 
with  the  necessary  liquid  to  wash  down  the  lunch  — 
but  no  more.  Whereupon  you  search  your  pockets 
and  make  a  brave  attempt  to  master  the  coinage  of 
the  country,  to  the  end  that  the  inner  man  may  be 
fed.  The  coinage  of  Costa  Rica  is  not  an  altogether 
simple  matter,  chiefly  because  of  the  depreciated 
character  of  it.  As  in  Panama,  the  average  vendor 
quotes  you  a  price  in  "gold"  —  meaning  thereby 
lawful  money  of  the  United  States,  which  every  one 
is  mighty  glad  to  get.  If  you  happen  to  have 
colones  —  the  native  dollar  is  called  a  colon,  in  a 
zealous  but  rather  futile  effort  to  honor  the  great 
discoverer  —  you  will  find  that  the  colon  isn't 
worth  much  over  forty-two  cents,  even  in  the 


IN  COSTA  RICA  99 

flattering  estimation  of  its  own  creators  and  sponsors. 
It  is  the  same  all  through  Central  America,  I  sup- 
pose. At  present,  for  example,  the  Mexicans  would 
regard  the  offer  of  $50,000  for  the  capture  of  such 
an  outlaw  as  Villa  as  meaning  something  like 
$2,000,000  in  the  Carranzista  currency.  If  you  take 
a  five-dollar  American  bill  to  a  grocer  in  Colombia 
and  buy  a  ham  with  it,  you  will  need  to  cart  away 
the  change  in  a  dray. 

Somehow  or  other  people  managed  to  secure 
fruit  of  the  women  who  besieged  the  train  at  the 
restaurant  station.  I  suspect  they  paid  for  their 
bananas  about  double  what  they  would  have  paid 
in  New  York.  The  difficulty  was  that  of  finding 
any  coin  small  enough  to  serve.  However,  if  the 
bananas  were  costly  they  were  worth  it.  I  never 
saw  such  bananas  —  just  ripe,  and  fairly  bursting 
their  yellow  skins;  only  the  Mogul  had  ordered 
some  beer  for  me,  and  then  unkindly  remembered 
that  if  you  eat  a  banana  after  drinking  beer  you  will 
surely  have  a  calentura,  and  most  likely  will  die.  I 
suspect  a  calentura  is  a  euphemism  for  a  pain  in  the 
midriff.  Certainly  it  sounds  better  —  and  sounds 
rather  fatal,  too.  The  others  ate  all  the  bananas, 
but  I  was  consoled  by  the  promise  of  Sefior  P.  — 
a  local  magnate  on  his  way  home  —  that  when  we 
got  to  Turrialba  he  would  treat  the  entire  train  to 


ioo  SAILING  SOUTH 

such  pineapples  as  had  never  been  tasted  by  one  of 
us  before.  He  was  right,  too. 

The  railroad  turned  inland  when  it  met  the  rapid 
torrent  of  the  Rio  Rivenzon.  At  the  moment  the 
latter  was  merely  a  perfectly  respectable  river,  but 
that  was  because  of  the  fact  that  it  was  the  (com- 
paratively) dry  season.  A  little  later  the  rains 
would  begin  and  the  stream  must  then  increase.  Its 
name  is  said  to  imply  a  sort  of  explosively  impetu- 
ous quality,  and  it  has  also  a  nickname  no  less  ex- 
pressive—the "Toro  Amarillo"  or  "Yellow  Bull." 
At  wet  seasons  it  is  prone  to  take  great  bites  out  of 
the  banks  in  entire  disregard  of  the  railroad  com- 
pany's easement-of-way,  so  that  passengers  are 
compelled  to  walk  gingerly  around  the  newest 
cave-in.  Even  in  the  dry  period  we  found  several 
places  where  the  track  lay  crazily  across  improvised 
revetments,  and  at  such  points  "Mike"  prudently 
slowed  his  train  to  a  mere  walk.  Rivulets  came 
streaming  down  the  sides  of  the  ravines  and  flowed 
amiably  along  between  the  rails.  I  do  not  wonder 
that  they  have  washouts  on  this  road;  rather  do  I 
wonder  that  they  ever  have  anything  else. 

Fortunately  it  was  not  ever  thus.  When  we  had 
passed  the  worst  of  the  places  we  began  to  climb  — 
a  steady,  chugging  sort  of  climb,  always  following 
the  sinuosities  of  the  valley,  but  making  at  every 


IN  COSTA  RICA  101 

bend  a  gain  upward.  A  straight  bit  of  track  was 
very  rare,  indeed.  The  line  curved  continually  as  it 
ascended,  and  terrifying  depths  began  to  yawn  be- 
low. The  train  clung  to  a  mere  shelf  over  the  abyss 
—  an  abyss  filled  so  full  of  amazing  trees  that  one 
wondered  how  the  land  nourished  them  all.  Some 
of  these  trees  were  said  to  be  mahogany  —  a  fact 
that  surprised  me  because  somehow  I  had  never 
expected  to  see  mahogany  in  any  form  but  that  of 
chairs  and  tables  and  highboys.  Also  there  was 
eucalyptus  —  more  familiar  in  the  form  of  oil. 

At  last  the  train  attained  an  altitude  well  above 
the  timber-line,  and  for  the  steaming  heat  of  the 
tropics,  we  now  exchanged  to  the  delights  of  a  balmy 
upland  springtime.  True,  one  could  still  look  down 
into  tremendous  vales  where,  far  beneath,  there 
rioted  a  tropic  vegetation;  but  the  immediate  en- 
vironment was  that  of  the  temperate  zone  and 
every  one  felt  himself  revived.  Turrialba  found  us 
at  twenty-five  hundred  feet  above  the  sea,  and  its 
ripe  pineapples  beggared  the  vocabulary  of  eulogy, 
just  as  Senor  P.  had  promised.  I  pity  you  —  for 
unless  you  have  been  in  Turrialba  you  do  not  know 
pineapples  at  all!  The  thing  you  call  a  pineapple 
might  as  well  be  exactly  that  —  a  dry,  wooden 
thing,  sprayed  with  flavoring  extract.  At  Turrialba, 
which  is  a  hamlet  on  the  side  of  an  extinct  volcano 


102  SAILING  SOUTH 

of  the  same  name,  they  have  the  genuine  article, 
creamy  in  texture,  dripping  with  juices,  and  possibly 
the  original  of  the  nectar-and-ambrosia  with  which 
Father  Zeus  and  his  celestial  company  once  re- 
freshed themselves.  They  call  it  a  pina  (peenyah) 
—  which  sounds  more  like  the  taste.  I  rejoice  in 
retrospect  partly  because  of  the  lively  memory  of 
the  flavor,  and  partly  because  there  is  no  silly  local 
superstition  against  consuming  pina  after  having 
partaken  of  malt. 

So  far  as  concerns  mere  altitude,  Turrialba  is  low 
down.  You  naturally  seem  to  be  pretty  well  up  in 
the  world  at  twenty-five  hundred  feet  —  but  the 
real  climb  is  yet  to  come.  You f ve  got  to  be  carried 
up  over  the  shoulder  of  Irazu  —  a  volcano  which, 
alas,  is  not  extinct  at  all  —  until  you  reach  Cartago 
at  an  elevation  of  about  fifty-eight  hundred  feet. 
As  you  go  upward,  the  views  become  increasingly 
magnificent,  as  a  matter  of  course.  The  valleys  be- 
low your  feet  broaden  into  colossal  bowls  rimmed 
by  ragged  peaks.  You  lose  the  river.  You  begin  to 
catch  glimpses  toward  the  west  that  betoken  the 
near  approach  of  the  continental  divide  and  the 
facilis  descensus  of  the  Pacific  slope. 

Cartago,  on  the  summit  of  the  ridge,  is  stupid  to 
a  degree,  because  it  is  growing  up  anew  from  a 
ruin,  like  weeds  on  a  burned  grassplot.  Not  so 


IN  COSTA  RICA  103 

many  years  ago  Irazu  wakened  from  his  dream  and 
erupted.  The  particular  Titan  pinned  beneath  the 
mountain  must  have  stirred  and  turned  over,  with 
disastrous  results  to  Cartago.  That  classically 
named  city  was  "delenda-ed"  with  a  comprehen- 
siveness that  even  the  exacting  Cato  would  have 
approved.  Hundreds  of  people  were  killed,  and  few 
of  the  old  buildings  survived.  The  town  is  growing 
up  again,  but  is  too  much  given  to  corrugated  iron 
—  locally  regarded,  it  would  seem,  as  God's  last, 
best  gift  to  man.  Further,  the  town  is  inhabited 
exclusively  by  boys.  I  know  this  because  I  saw 
them.  They  were  all  at  the  station.  They  subsist 
by  selling  cakes  of  a  fearful  and  wonderful  kind  to 
incautious  tourists  who  are  deaf  to  all  warnings 
against  calentura.  Their  lung-power  is  unsurpassed. 
Nature  intended  them  for  auctioneers. 

From  this  point  onward  the  journey  is  easy. 
San  Jose"  lies  only  a  dozen  more  miles  to  the  west 
and  perhaps  one  thousand  feet  lower  down,  in  a 
sort  of  vast  interior  basin  between  huge  mountain 
ranges.  The  farms  begin  to  reveal  coffee-trees 
rather  than  bananas,  although  there  are  still  ba- 
nanas. Senor  P.  showed  us  his  own  plantation  and 
was  electrified  to  sudden  frenzy  by  seeing  his  son 
and  daughter  —  choice  selections  out  of  a  flourish- 
ing family  of  eleven  —  wildly  chasing  the  train  on 


104  SAILING  SOUTH 

foot.  They  had  come  out  to  meet  father  —  and  the 
train  for  some  reason  had  failed  to  stop  at  their  pair 
of  bars  for  the  first  time  in  recorded  history.  Noth- 
ing could  be  done,  of  course,  for  the  train  was  run- 
ning downhill  by  now  and  was  intent  on  getting 
home  to  its  supper;  so  there  was  naught  for  the 
disconsolate  senor  to  do  but  curse  the  railroad  com- 
pany with  truly  Spanish-American  fervor  until  the 
engine  drew  panting  into  the  station  of  San  Jose". 

And  what  a  landing  it  was!  The  station  was  full 
of  people,  chiefly  delegations  to  meet  the  Mogul  and 
assure  him  that  abundant  rooms  had  been  reserved 
for  his  use  and  behoof  in  divers  hotels.  Seven  cities 
claimed  Old  Homer  dead  —  but,  thanks  to  the  of- 
ficial interest  which  the  Mogul  had  awakened  in 
Limon,  seven  hotels  now  fought  for  his  body,  living. 
It  was  what  is  called,  I  believe,  in  our  French 
quarters  an  embarras  de  richesses. 

Never  have  I  been  more  deeply  impressed  by  the 
master  mind.  The  Mogul  solved  all  difficulties  by 
simply  going  to  a  hostelry  whence  no  runner  ap- 
peared to  claim  him  —  meantime  commending  the 
warring  porters  to  the  inundation  of  tourists  all 
about  us  who  had  made  no  reservations  and  were 
fair  game.  Nor  did  we  regret  it.  The  hotels  of 
San  Jose"  are  without  exception  bad.  Human  tes- 
timony is  convincing  to  that  effect.  But  to  the 


IN  COSTA  RICA  105 

little  outlying  casa  de  huespedes  —  it  would  be  a 
"boarding-house"  in  our  unpoetic  English  speech  — 
which  the  Mogul  selected  as  our  abode,  I  here  and 
now  take  off  my  hat.  It  was  a  haven  of  rest  in  a 
weary  land,  and  the  Senorita  Montealegre  has  a 
cook  who  is  beyond  praise. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SAN  JOSfi 

SAN  JOSE  is  a  one-story  town.  By  this  I  mean 
no  disrespect  to  the  capital  and  chief  city  of 
the  Costa  Ricans.  There  is  all  the  difference  in  the 
world  between  a  one-story  town  and  a  one-horse 
town.  I  say  that  San  Jos6  is  a  one-story  town  be- 
cause that  is  literally  —  or  almost  literally  —  true. 

The  reason  is  the  prevalence  of  earthquakes. 
These  are  of  very  frequent  occurrence.  In  fact  I 
suspect  that  a  veracious  seismograph  would  testify 
that  the  surface  of  the  country  is  almost  never  quite 
still.  There  must  be  almost  perpetual  tremors, 
whereof  only  the  greater  ones  are  seriously  felt. 

Three  young  men,  clerks  in  local  banks  and  con- 
sulates, whom  I  found  sitting  on  Sefiorita  Monteal- 
egre's  "piazza."  when  I  emerged  from  a  hasty  ab- 
lution after  a  day  on  the  train,  began  forthwith  to 
enlighten  me  as  to  the  latest  big  shock,  which  had 
occurred  on  the  previous  Sunday.  It  had,  they 
said,  lasted  a  "full  minute"  —  with  subsequent 
tremors  enduring  for  nearly  an  hour.  The  sensation 
was  that  of  being  on  the  deck  of  a  ship  at  sea.  Men 
walking  the  streets  suddenly  staggered  as  if  drunk, 


SAN  JOSE  107 

and  extended  their  arms  involuntarily,  as  rope- 
dancers  do.  One  of  them  said  that  after  this  fu- 
nambulatory  experience  he  was  downright  seasick 
and  had  n't  felt  well  since.  It  made  me  rather 
timorous,  for  I  was  never  in  an  earthquake  but 
once,  and  I  did  n't  like  it,  even  then.  Visitors  in 
Costa  Rica  are  always  terrified  at  the  thought  of 
quakes.  As  for  the  natives,  they  have  by  no  means 
gotten  used  to  tremblements  de  terre  and  most  of 
them,  as  I  found,  were  quite  willing  to  confess  that 
they,  too,  were  always  afraid.  Why  not? 

I  may  as  well  own  up  now  that  we  experienced 
no  earthquake  at  all  while  in  the  city.  I  lived  in 
hourly  expectation,  but  none  came.  It  seemed  en- 
tirely natural  that  there  should  be  such  things, 
however,  since  from  our  veranda  one  could  see  the 
summits  of  three  volcanoes,  only  technically  ex- 
tinct. Irazu,  the  biggest,  had  proved  its  content  of 
fire  within  a  few  years  by  destroying  Cartago,  the 
next  considerable  town.  The  middle  mountain 
seemed  to  be  very  quiet.  The  third  —  it  had  a 
name  something  like  "Boaz,"  so  that  I  named  the 
middle  one  "Ruth"  —  was  smoking  behind  a  veil 
of  cloud.  All  three  sloped  in  a  tremendous  incline 
from  the  depths  of  a  tiny  intervening  valley.  Over 
toward  the  south,  where  lay  the  main  part  of  the 
city,  there  was  a  broad  plain  —  a  lofty  plateau 


io8  SAILING  SOUTH 

something  like  forty-five  hundred  feet  above  the 
sea  —  extending  to  the  feet  of  some  other,  but  not 
volcanic,  mountains  of  conspicuous  ruggedness. 
This  plain,  I  found,  was  the  very  heart  of  Costa 
Rica,  sheltering  the  one  considerable  city  and  the 
chief  province.  In  all,  however,  there  are  five  states 
in  the  republic,  and  two  petty  divisions  known  as 
comarcas.  I  discover,  now  that  it  is  too  late  to  do 
me  any  good,  that  when  I  was  in  Limon  I  was  in  a 
comarca.  It  adds  to  my  retrospective  bliss. 

It  must  be  rather  difficult  business  to  make  a 
tour  of  the  several  Costa  Rican  states.  The  chief 
reason  is  that  there  are  no  roads  at  all.  The  rail- 
road —  very  precarious  in  its  existence  owing  to 
the  rains  and  the  quakes  —  is  the  one  means  of 
communication  between  the  capital  and  either 
ocean.  Most  of  the  states  are  entirely  apart  from  it 
and  must  be  reached  either  by  riding  on  horseback 
over  rough  trails  or  else,  as  the  president  later  in- 
formed me,  by  going  "up  the  rivers  in  a  gasoline." 

The  total  population  is  about  400,000  I  believe, 
whereof  about  40,000  live  in  San  Jos6.  Until  quite 
recently  revolutions  were  never  indulged  in,  and 
upon  this  fact  Costa  Rica  has  prided  herself.  The 
altogether  charming  Senorita  A.,  with  whom  I 
talked  and  who  had  been  educated  in  "the  States," 
laid  due  stress  on  this  fact.  "That's  where  we  have 


SAN  JOSfi  109 

something  on  Nicaragua,"  she  glibly  said.  "They 
are  always  fighting.  We  never  do!" 

I  commented  on  the  ease  with  which  she  had 
tossed  off  the  idiomatic  expression  "having  some- 
thing on,"  and  asked  if  her  vocabulary  included  any 
other  Americanisms.  "Ah,  yes,"  she  answered: 
"When  I  was  in  New  Jersey  they  taught  me  to  say, 
'Hang  a  piece  of  crape  on  his  nose;  his  brains  are 
dead!'"  (My  country!  O  my  country!) 

Most  of  the  better-class  Costa  Ricans  —  and 
they  are  a  thrifty  people  who  understand  money- 
making  and  gentle  living  —  are  educated  in  Europe 
or  America.  The  result  is  that  English  is  widely 
spoken,  and  one  whose  Spanish  is  rusty  has  but 
little  difficulty  in  "getting  around."  Mine  is  as 
rusty  as  it  can  be  and  still  remain  Spanish.  At- 
tempts to  use  it  on  shopmen,  cabbies,  and  the  local 
police  were  invariably  disastrous.  And,  by  the  way, 
since  I  have  mentioned  the  police,  let  me  say  that 
one  of  the  proofs  offered  to  demonstrate  the  law- 
abiding  quality  of  the  native  is  that  the  night  force 
now  carries  "only  a  single-shot  rifle  instead  of  a 
repeating  Winchester" !  I  submit  that  for  what  it  is 
worth.  No  doubt  the  rifles  are  but  seldom  used  — 
but  if  a  couple  of  natives,  full  of  supper  and  dis- 
tempering draughts,  happen  to  fall  upon  each  other 
with  machetes,  a  constabulary  weapon  capable  of 


i  io  SAILING  SOUTH 

being  operated  with  effect  from  a  distance  must  be 
desirable. 

One  may  speak  with  but  little  assurance  on  a  three 
days'  acquaintance,  but  at  all  events  in  the  three 
days  I  saw  no  such  disorder  and  no  public  drunken- 
ness. The  latter,  of  course,  does  exist,  as  it  always 
must  in  a  land  where  native  wines  are  unknown  and 
where  recourse  is  had  by  the  joyous  celebrant  to 
potent  distillations.  The  drawback  about  Latin- 
America  is  its  lack  of  any  comparatively  harmless 
beverage  and  the  common  decision  to  substitute 
raw  brandy  for  lesser  alcoholics.  Aguardiente  must 
be  as  deadly  as  it  sounds. 

p  I  was  awakened  on  the  first  morning  in  town  by  a 
sound  of  wheels  in  the  street  below,  and  looked  out. 
It  was  an  impressive  sight.  The  garbage  man  was 
abroad  on  his  scavenging  rounds.  Ahead  of  his  open 
wagon  walked  in  a  sober  platoon  four  enormous 
vultures,  all  in  sable  and  maintaining  the  chastened 
demeanor  of  undertakers  at  an  open  grave.  Behind 
the  wagon  walked  half  a  dozen  other  vultures, 
similarly  sedate.  And  around  the  rim  of  the  cart, 
perched  in  a  solemn  row,  sat  twenty-one  other  birds 
of  the  same  species  and  same  somber  hue.  I  would 
fain  have  immortalized  the  scene,  but  the  camera, 
alas,  was  n't  loaded.  I  began  to  understand  why 
the  streets  of  San  Jose,  which  leave  much  to  be 


SAN  JOSfi  in 

desired  in  other  respects,  are  at  least  so  notably 
clean.  The  buzzards  attend  to  that! 

Your  chief  impression  of  the  streets,  after  their 
cleanliness,  is  that  they  are  rough.  The  rains,  so 
heavy  and  frequent  in  their  season,  naturally  wash 
much  of  the  surfacing  away  and  macadam  is  only 
beginning  to  be  laid  with  scientific  regard  to  tar  and 
oil  binders.  If  you  take  a  carriage,  at  six  colones  an 
hour,  you  will  appreciate  the  ruggedness  of  the 
highways  even  more  surely  than  if  you  walk;  and 
if  you  talk  ambitiously  about  motoring  outside  the 
town  you  will  be  told  that  there's  no  road  to  motor 
on.  I  caught  one  glimpse  of  the  rugged  highway 
that  leads  over  to  Cartago  and  decided  then  and 
there  against  venturing  it  in  an  automobile.  On 
horseback  one  might  make  the  trip,  or  in  one  of 
those  curious  local  ox-carts  with  perfectly  solid 
wheels  made  of  disks  cut  from  a  giant  tree.  But  of 
real  carriage  road  there  is  none  in  Costa  Rica  and 
there  will  be  none  for  years. 

People  are  beginning  to  wake  up  to  the  necessity 
for  them,  it  is  true,  and  one  hears  grumbling  over 
the  folly  of  having  a  $2,000,000  opera-house  (which 
they  have)  as  contrasted  with  feasible  state  high- 
ways (which  they  have  not).  It  seems  absurd, 
truly,  to  have  a  national  theater  so  magnificent  and 
costly  that  it  can  almost  never  be  opened  for  use  — 


112  SAILING  SOUTH 

and  then  only  with  a  government  subsidy  to  import 
actors  and  singers.  Yet  San  Jos6,  while  apologizing 
for  her  extravagance  in  this  regard,  is  still  genuinely 
proud  of  the  white-elephant  theater  and  lets  you 
walk  in  and  look  at  it.  It  is  one  of  the  few  two-story 
buildings  in  town,  and  it  is  certainly  magnificent. 
The  marbles  are  the  choicest.  The  mural  decoration 
is  superb.  The  earthquakes  have  thus  far  spared  it. 
In  past  years  it  was  used  for  the  grand  presidential 
ball  —  but  a  young  and  thrifty  administration  is 
now  in  power  which  refuses  to  give  any  such  party, 
so  that  even  this  delight  is  suspended  for  the  nonce. 
Occasionally  the  theater  is  used  for  competitions 
among  local  poets,  who  read  their  effusions  in  public 
and  are  rewarded  with  sprigs  of  bay,  or  wild  olive, 
in  truly  Olympic  fashion. 

•  Of  course  the  Mogul  had  letters  to  local  potentates 
and  their  effect  was  far-reaching.  They  led  first 
of  all  to  a  gayly  caparisoned  barouche  that  drove  up 
the  next  day  to  take  us  on  a  tour  of  the  town.  On 
the  box  were  two  young  natives  in  livery,  with  white 
duck  trousers  and  "tall  hats  answering  to  the  name 
of  Fido,"  in  the  playful  language  of  Irvin  Cobb. 
As  we  clattered  off  through  the  undulating  streets, 
past  the  rest  of  the  ship's  people  we  felt  very  haughty, 
indeed.  Later  on,  an  audience  was  arranged  for  us 
with  the  youthful  president  (since  incontinently  de- 


SAN  JOSfi  113 

posed)  hight  Gonzales.  (Maybe  you  did  n't  know 
his  name?  I  did  n't  before;  nor  yet  did  the  Mogul. 
But  we  covered  our  ignorance  by  the  simple  expe- 
dient of  finding  out  from  the  senorita  at  our  pension 
before  we  were  ushered  into  the  presence-chamber!) 

The  president  abides  in  a  pleasant  official  man- 
sion over  on  the  easterly  side  of  the  city.  There  are 
gardens  blazing  with  tropical  flowers  outside  and 
walks  shaded  by  rows  of  royal  palms.  We  were 
ushered,  as  I  said,  into  the  presence-chamber  and 
found  it  a  tremendous  room,  decorated  in  a  rich  red 
brocade,  with  a  regiment  or  two  of  red  chairs  rearing 
up  on  slender  gilt  legs  all  over  the  place.  You  know 
the  kind.  No  real  palace  could  exist  without  them. 
I  began  to  wish  I  had  worn  my  dress-suit.  The  chief 
local  pundit,  X.,  who  went  with  us  attired  in  the 
uniform  of  a  captain  of  industry,  felt  quite  at  home. 
The  Mogul  and  I  sat  gingerly  down  on  the  edge  of 
two  chairs  apiece,  it  being  deemed  safer  to  distribute 
weight  on  things  so  beautifully  frail. 

I  expected  a  blare  of  trumpets  and  a  bit  of  sing- 
ing as  the  prelude  to  the  official  entrance.  It  would 
have  harmonized  with  the  chairs.  But  instead  a 
clerk  led  President  Gonzales  down  from  his  offices 
to  meet  us  —  and  a  very  attractive  young  gentle- 
man he  turned  out  to  be.  He  seemed  to  have  at- 
tained that  age  that  Boston  ladies  refer  to  coyly  as 


114  SAILING  SOUTH 

"  between  thirty-five."  He  had  a  winning  smile,  good 
teeth,  becoming  clothes,  and  was  in  all  respects 
debonair.  He  inquired  if  we  spoke  Spanish;  and 
the  Mogul  answered,  in  his  most  fluent  Castilian, 
"No."  Whereupon  the  president  immersed  us  in 
another  effulgent  smile  and  graciously  said  that  he 
would  try  to  speak  English  —  which  he  did  indiffer- 
ent well.  It  was,  at  all  events,  a  much  better  medium 
of  exchange  than  our  Spanish  would  have  been.  One 
can't  talk  to  a  full-fledged  president  about  "hot 
water"  and  "How  much  does  that  cost?"  and  "Sir, 
we  wish  a  room  with  two  beds" ;  and  my  Spanish  is 
only  about  as  good  as  that. 

Prodded  now  and  then  by  the  interpretative  X., 
we  made  shift  to  converse  for  upward  of  half  an  hour. 
As  I  recall  it  we  talked  chiefly  of  the  weather,  and 
how  nice  it  was  to  be  in  San  Jos6,  and  how  desolated 
we  should  be  when  we  had  to  go.  None  of  us  knew 
quite  how  to  close  the  interview.  I  waited  for  the 
president  to  rise,  extend  his  hand  to  be  kissed,  and 
intimate  that  we  might  back  out  of  the  room.  Since 
he  gave  no  sign,  I  looked  helplessly  at  the  Mogul  and 
found  him  looking  helplessly  at  me.  X.  looked  as 
helpless  as  both  of  us  together.  Then,  as  if  touched 
by  a  spring,  we  all  arose  at  once,  mumbling  in 
unison  some  further  commonplaces  as  to  how  nice  it 
was  to  be  in  San  Jos6  and  how  we  should  hate  to  go, 


SAN  JOSfi  115 

shook  hands  all  round,  and  emerged  into  the  free 
sunshine.  It  was  unanimously  voted  that  the  presi- 
dent was  a  mighty  nice  chap,  and  that  an  enjoyable 
time  had  been  had  by  all.  X.  then  ordered  the 
liveried  coachmen  to  proceed  at  a  dignified  pace  to 
the  lunatic  asylum. 

You  will  not  escape  the  lunatic  asylum  in  any  of 
these  Latin  countries.  In  Havana  they  insisted  upon 
showing  it,  and  X.  was  not  going  to  have  us  miss  the 
one  in  San  Jose.  Now  that  I  have  seen  it,  I  do  not 
blame  him.  It  was  a  tropical  paradise  that  would 
outshine  the  finest  public  garden  you  ever  saw. 
The  lunatics  were  thoughtfully  removed  to  a  remote 
part  of  the  establishment,  and  we  were  only  aware  of 
a  distant  pandemonium  of  drums  mingling  with 
faintly  audible  but  blood-curdling  shrieks.  Emptied 
of  its  inmates,  and  peopled  only  by  gentle  nuns  and 
a  no  less  gentle  doctor,  it  was  charming  to  a  degree. 
One  thing  they  certainly  do  well  in  Latin- America. 
They  look  well  after  the  pobrecito  loco  —  the  "poor 
little  crazy-one." 

I  happened  to  have  a  loaded  camera  the  day  I  saw 

• 

the  milkman  come  along.  At  first  sight  I  thought 
him  a  cavalry  officer.  He  was  on  horseback  and  he 
swung  around  the  corner  on  the  canter,  with  several 
capacious  cans  clattering  at  his  saddle-bow.  The 
mystery  is  how  the  milk  escapes  being  churned  to 


ii6  SAILING  SOUTH 

butter  by  the  time  it  reaches  the  ultimate  consumer. 
The  reason  for  going  on  horseback  is,  I  suppose,  that 
the  milk  route  occasionally  leads  over  a  way  im- 
practicable for  wheels.  Decidedly  the  crying  need  of 
Costa  Rica,  including  San  Jos6,  is  good  roads. 

In  one  other  particular,  besides  having  a  presi- 
dent living  there,  San  Jos6  is  like  Washington.  It  is 
divided  into  quarters  by  two  great  central  thorough- 
fares. Each  quarter  is  laid  off  in  squares  by  high- 
ways that  are  called  "streets"  when  they  run  north 
and  south,  and  "avenues"  when  they  run  east  and 
west.  Each  series  is  numbered  —  not  named.  Our 
house,  for  example,  was  at  the  corner  of  First  Street 
and  Eleventh  Avenue,  N.W.  This  is  highly  scientific 
but  I  confess  I  don't  like  it  much.  I  prize  the  irregu- 
lar and  unscientifically  planned  town,  where  the 
streets  run  crazily  and  have  real  names  of  their  own. 
There  is  a  dreary  certainty  about  such  things  in  San 
Jos6.  Further,  I  gathered  from  directions  given  me 
by  the  local  police  that  each  block  is  one  hundred  feet 
in  length.  At  all  events,  when  I  asked  for  the  house 
of  Senor  X.,  they  told  me  to  go  east  dos  cientos  — 
two  hundreds  —  and  then  south  one  hundred. 

The  monotony  of  ambulation  about  the  town  is 
broken  by  the  amazing  quality  of  the  sidewalks. 
These  are  never  very  wide  —  usually,  indeed,  so 
narrow  that  two  may  not  walk  abreast;  and  to  make 


SAN  JOSE:  117 

matters  worse,  they  are  often  as  much  as  two  feet 
above  the  street  level,  although  this  is  subject  to 
constant  variation.  One  is  always  going  up  and 
down  steps,  and  in  the  dark. one  must  watch  out. 
If  you  meet  a  lady  you  jump  down  into  the  street, 
taking  care  not  to  get  into  the  gutter,  which  is  also 
the  sewer. 

San  Jos6  has  two  public  squares,  or  parks,  where 
twice  a  week  —  now  in  one  and  now  in  the  other  — 
the  municipal  band  plays.  This  is  as  well  understood 
an  institution  as  the  days  of  the  week  and  of  course 
everybody  goes.  The  one  nearest  our  house  has 
four  well-marked  divisions  on  each  corner,  and  the 
pavilion  for  the  band  is  in  the  center.  Whether  there 
is  any  class  distinction  in  the  other  three  I  do  not 
know,  but  one  of  the  quarters  is  by  common  consent 
frequented  by  the  "better  class."  There  is  no  rule 
about  it  —  that  is  to  say,  no  one  is  excluded.  You 
simply  know  that  if  you  walk  through  that  particular 
square  on  a  concert  evening  you  will  find  all  the 
"real  people"  there,  and  in  the  other  corners  not 
one  of  them. 

A  bevy  of  San  Josefifias  —  that  is  the  pretty  way 
they  have  of  denominating  the  girls  of  the  city  — 
is  an  interesting  sight.  It  seems  to  be  locally  re- 
garded as  the  acme  of  full  dress  for  a  festal  occasion 
for  the  girls  to  take  down  their  hair  and  let  it  flow  over 


Ii8  SAILING  SOUTH 

the  shoulders.  The  "real  people,"  whose  daughters 
have  been  educated  abroad,  do  not  do  this;  in  fact 
they  turn  up  their  noses  and  sniff.  The  local  coiffure  is 
regarded  as  indicating  an  ignorance  of  the  beau  monde. 
But  this  bothers  the  native  San  Josefifia  not  at  all, 
and  she  parades  gayly  with  her  friends  and  with  her 
affianced,  if  she  has  one,  with  flowing  locks. 

We  walked  under  the  shadows  of  trees  while  the 
band  performed  the  traditional  five  selections.  It 
was  a  quiet,  well-ordered  throng.  The  girls  walked 
to  and  fro  and  shook  their  ringlets  provocatively  at 
the  young  men.  In  a  dark  corner,  on  a  bench,  I 
detected  Senor  X.  and  Senorita  Y.,  gazing  into  each 
other's  eyes  and  shyly  conversing.  It  pleased  me; 
for  I  knew  by  local  gossips  that  papa  did  not  ap- 
prove, and  it  gave  color  to  the  sage  remark  of  the 
adorable  Senorita  A.  —  she  of  the  sophisticated 
American  idiom  —  that  she  "rather  guessed  they'd 
pull  it  off  in  spite  of  the  old  man."  They  did,  too, 
later  on  —  and  I  have  no  doubt  will  live  happily 
ever  after. 

No  earth  tremors  were  experienced  during  the 
brief  time  that  we  remained  in  San  Jos6,  but  rumor 
said  that  in  the  interval  the  railroad  down  toward 
Turrialba  had  washed  away  again.  This  being  a  mere 
commonplace  the  line  was  in  working  order  next 
day  —  and  it  was  both  possible  and  necessary  to 


SAN  JOS£  119 

revert  to  Limon  and  the  ship.  Those  in  charge  of 
her  had  not  been  idle.  She  was  loaded  to  capacity 
with  bananas  and  it  seemed  impossible  to  afford  ac- 
commodation to  anything  more.  Nevertheless  the 
captain,  in  the  goodness  of  his  soul,  yielded  to  the 
importunities  of  an  itinerant  circus  which  was 
stranded  at  the  port  and  admitted  for  passage  back 
to  the  Isthmus  a  choice  collection  of  weary  animals, 
horses,  and  performers  of  various  descriptions.  The 
latter  berthed  themselves  as  best  they  could  for  a 
night  on  the  tables  and  sofas  of  the  saloon.  The 
animals,  including  one  giraffe  and  what  the  late 
A.  Ward  would  have  described  as  "2  moral  bares," 
lent  color  and  other  things  to  the  open  spaces  adja- 
cent to  the  fo'c'sle.  I  doubt  that  any  more  pictur- 
esque shipload  has  ever  committed  itself  to  the  mer- 
cies of  the  deep  since  the  days  of  Father  Noah.  Dis- 
quieting visions  of  what  might  happen  if  we  ran 
into  a  storm  were  dispelled  by  the  captain's  bluff 
assurance  that  there  "never  was  any  wind  in  here" 
—  and  in  truth  we  sailed  to  Cristobal  over  a  glassy 
sea,  disgorging  our  acrobats  and  menagerie  without 
untoward  incident  in  the  morning  to  delight  the 
inhabitants  of  two  coasts.  1 1  required  little  more  than 
an  hour.  And  by  night  Cristobal  was  for  us  no  more 
than  a  faint  glare  against  a  tropic  sky  as  the  prow 
turned  again  toward  the  Polar  star. 


CHAPTER  IX 
PREPARING  FOR  PORTO  RICO 

YOU  might  think  it  an  easy  and  simple  thing  to 
make  a  pilgrimage,  even  in  war-time,  from  New 
York  to  a  dependency  of  the  United  States  so  near 
at  hand  as  Porto  Rico  —  but  it  was  not ;  and  unless 
things  have  improved  since  the  war  it  is  n't  even  now 
as  simple  as  it  was  before. 

Theoretically,  as  you  are  at  no  time  out  of  our 
glorious  jurisdiction,  you  need  no  passport.  If  you 
did,  it  would  be  more  of  a  ceremony  than  it  is.  Any 
one  who  has  asked  for  a  passport  recently  must 
know  that  the  only  thing  harder  to  obtain  is  passage 
for  a  camel  "through  the  knee  of  an  idol,"  as  the 
late  Mr.  Nye  somewhere  remarks.  Of  course  there 's 
a  reason.  The  Germans  began  to  abuse  our  easy- 
going passport  system  at  the  outset  of  the  war;  and 
before  our  Government  was  fully  awake  they  had 
flooded  the  world  with  spurious  documents  which 
made  an  infinitude  of  trouble.  Then  the  screws  went 
on.  Passports  were  issued  only  for  limited  terms  and 
after  the  most  painstaking  scrutiny  of  the  applicant; 
moreover,  confining  the  scope  of  the  permit  to  a  very 
limited  area  of  the  earth's  crust.  One  is  glad  this  was 


124  SAILING  SOUTH 

done  —  but  personally  it  involves  inconveniences. 

If  you  seek  a  passport  now  the  resultant  inquisi- 
tion is  likely  to  make  you  feel  that  you  're  a  poten- 
tial impostor  whether  you  are  or  not.  The  very  fact 
that  you  desire  a  passport  seems  to  be  prima-facie 
evidence  against  you.  Who  are  you,  anyway?  Are 
you  who  you  say  you  are?  Prove  it  to  us!  Show  us 
your  picture!  Tell  us  where  you  were  born  —  and 
where  your  parents  were  born.  Get  a  bona-fide  wage- 
earner  to  vouch  for  you.  Why  must  you  travel? 
Why  not  stay  at  home?  Are  you  really  sure  you  are 
not  a  spy?  Bow-wow-wow!  However,  if  this  ordeal 
suffices  to  keep  down  the  number  of  the  idly  curious 
who  would  otherwise  go  to  Europe  before  Europe 
is  ready  for  company,  it  is  n't  altogether  amiss.  But 
it  is  suspected  that  it  discourages  too  few  who  really 
ought  to  be  discouraged.  I  know  it  frightened  me. 

I  selected  Porto  Rico  as  a  place  which  the  Gov- 
ernment would  probably  not  care  too  much  about. 
It  seemed  rather  like  going  to  Chicago.  But  some- 
where there  is  a  magic  in  the  fact  that  you  go  thither 
on  a  boat.  The  Government  is  not  incurious  about 
you,  after  all. 

At  any  rate,  the  steamer  company  gave  me  a  long 
printed  sheet  of  instructions  as  to  what  must  be 
done  before  any  one  could  be  allowed  to  sail.  Thanks 
to  the  armistice,  the  requirements  that  you  get  the 


PREPARING  FOR  PORTO  RICO      125 

gracious  permission  of  your  local  draft  board  to  leave 
the  confines  of  the  State  had  been  done  away  — 
but  there  was  enough  left.  You  had  to  secure  per- 
mission from  the  immigration  authorities  —  and 
that  was  only  one  degree  less  difficult  than  to  get  a 
sure-enough  passport  from  Washington.  It  meant 
that  you  'd  got  to  go  to  the  deputy's  office  in  Nassau 
Street,  produce  a  sheaf  of  photographs,  make  out  a 
questionnaire  as  long  as  the  moral  law  giving  facts 
about  your  ancestors  unto  the  third  and  fourth 
generation,  bring  satisfactory  evidence  of  citizen- 
ship, produce  a  well-known  citizen  of  the  United 
States  who  had  known  you  for  three  or  four  years 
to  swear  to  your  identity  —  and  then,  if  all  went 
well,  the  office  would  give  you  a  permit  card. 

Then,  at  least  fifty-seven  and  a  half  hours  before 
sailing,  you  must  take  that  card  to  the  custom  house 
of  the  port,  undergo  a  thorough  examination,  get 
it  what  the  Government  calls  "visaed,"  and  possibly 
you  might  be  allowed  to  sail. 

I  came  near  giving  it  up.  All  this  looked  like  a 
mountain;  and  besides,  the  winter  was  so  open  that 
it  seemed  silly  to  go  south.  But  I  'd  talked  it  over 
with  the  Mogul,  and  he  was  bound  we  should  go. 
Besides,  the  M.'s  wanted  to  go  —  after  first  talking 
about  residual  floating  mines  and  the  suicidal  folly 
of  the  whole  business.  So  I  took  my  courage  in 


126  SAILING  SOUTH 

both  hands  and  went  through  the  mill.  This  is  the 
story  thereof.  If  you  have  had  experience  with  such 
things  you  will  know  it  was  n't  nearly  so  terrible  as 
it  sounded. 

Getting  the  photographs  was  the  worst  part.  The 
regulations  are  terribly  specific  about  those.  They 
tell  you  that  the  picture  must  have  light  background 
—  and  being  a  blond  I  always  take  a  poor  picture 
against  anything  but  a  really  dark  black.  Then  they 
insist  that  the  face  of  the  subject  must  be  at  least  one 
inch  and  a  half  long  in  the  finished  picture;  that  the 
negative  mustn't  be  retouched;  that  the  paper 
must  be  of  a  certain  specified  thinness ;  that  you  will 
need  three  pictures,  and  that  the  complete  picture 
must  n't  on  any  account  be  any  bigger  than  just 
so  and  so.  It  seemed  that  no  photographer  could 
guarantee  all  this.  However,  you  have  to  take  a 
chance.  So  I  found  a  little  wayside  booth  in  Sixth 
Avenue,  presided  over  by  a  genial  Yiddish  gentle- 
man who  advertised  by  displaying  a  hideous  blue 
light  in  his  window  and  a  sign  saying  that  he  knew 
all  about  passport  pictures.  There  are  a  million  of 
these  in  the  United  States,  more  or  less. 

I  went  in.  The  proprietor  sat  me  down  in  a  sort  of 
electric  chair  and  turned  on  his  lights.  The  others 
stood  around  and  watched,  but  they  said  they  could 
hardly  bear  it.  Under  that  ghastly  blue  glare  you 


PREPARING  FOR  PORTO  RICO      127 

don't  exactly  look  as  if  you  were  dead  —  you  look 
"considerably  more  than  that,"  like  Huckleberry 
Finn's  "sick  Arab." 

The  artist  squinted  at  me  through  his  camera, 
issued  a  series  of  conflicting  orders  as  to  which  way 
I  was  to  look,  told  me  not  to  assume  quite  so  austere 
an  expression  —  and  finally  took  the  picture.  He 
also  took  Katrina's.  I  wish  you  could  see  them  — 
or  rather  I  am  glad  you  can't!  Katrina  looks  like 
a  cigarette  girl  from  Carmen  —  a  person  with  no 
principle  or  reputation  whatever.  As  for  me,  the 
photographer  shuddered  as  if  in  pain  when  he 
produced  the  completed  photographs,  and  ducked 
prudently  as  he  handed  them  across  the  counter.  I 
looked,  in  the  picture,  like  the  Wrath  of  Heaven. 

Naturally  I  hated  to  show  those  things  to  the 
immigration  officer.  Nothing  was  more  clear  than 
that  the  inspector  would  say  I  was  an  anarchist  with 
a  prison  record.  I  should  n't  have  blamed  him. 

But  the  inspector  proved  to  be  a  nice  man.  He 
lives  in  a  skyscraper  downtown,  near  the  haunts  of 
the  Money  Power.  You  ascend  in  a  crowded  eleva- 
tor. It  is  now  about  ten  in  the  forenoon,  say  —  the 
hour  at  which  New  York  really  begins  to  think  about 
work.  You  are  disgorged  on  the  dozenth  floor  into 
a  corridor  which  appears  to  be  filled  with  waiting 
Bolsheviks.  They  have  been  marshaled  in  what  the 


128  SAILING  SOUTH 

British  call  a  "queue"  —  a  discouragingly  long  and 
disgustingly  smelly  queue  —  and  of  course  you 
think  you  are  in  for  six  hours  of  standing  in  line. 

But  the  elevator  boy  is  wise  for  one  so  young. 
He  says,  "Say,  fella,  what  do  you  want?  Just  an 
application,  ain't  it?  Well,  just  you  go  right  in!" 
So  you  push  your  way  up  to  the  head  of  the  line, 
pursued  by  a  roar  of  protest  in  a  dozen  different 
languages  from  the  assembled  Bolsheviki.  It  is 
rough  work  —  but  needs  must  when  the  devil 
drives!  I  can't  see  that  any  one  has  any  right  to  do 
it,  strictly,  because  all  any  of  those  fellows  want  is 
"an  application."  I  am  grateful,  however,  to  that 
mendacious  elevator  boy,  because  what  otherwise 
might  have  taken  me  six  hours  really  took  only 
about  thirty  minutes. 

I  said  the  inspector  was  a  nice  man.  He  was  all  of 
that.  He  rushed  me  off  to  a  corner,  spread  some 
blanks  before  me,  gave  me  a  bad  pen,  and  told  me 
to  write  my  history.  I  knew  how  he  felt.  I  Ve  served 
on  legal  advisory  boards  during  the  draft,  and  I  know 
that  when  you  get  a  subject  who  seems  reasonably 
intelligent,  so  that  he  can  fill  out  his  own  cards,  it  is 
a  mercy  from  heaven  as  compared  with  wrestling 
with  a  man  who  can't  read,  write,  or  even  speak 
English.  But  I  was  still  worried  about  that  repu- 
table New  York  citizen  who  would  have  to  swear 


PREPARING  FOR  PORTO  RICO      129 

that  he  had  known  me  three  years  —  because  the 
Mogul  was  sick  at  home  and  I  could  n't  think  of  any 
other.  The  inspector  waved  that  aside.  He  said, 
"  I  suppose  the  Missus  will  swear  to  you  —  or  at 
you  —  won't  she?"  She  did.  I  produced  the  pho- 
tographs. He  pasted  them  on  —  merely  favoring 
me  with  a  horrid  laugh  as  he  looked  at  mine  and 
saying  "Gad!"  under  his  breath. 

Katrina  swore  —  but  in  a  different  tone  of  voice 
—  as  to  my  identity.  She  also  helped  me  to  make  a 
description  of  my  personal  appearance,  but  this  in- 
volved some  quibbling.  I  wanted  to  describe  my 
forehead  as  "broad  and  noble,"  nose  as  "straight," 
eyes  as  "blue  and  honest,"  and  certain  other  flatter- 
ing little  touches  which  seemed  to  me  only  my  due 
after  the  libel  of  that  photograph.  But  Katrina  kept 
my  feet  sternly  on  the  ground,  curtailed  all  the 
descriptive  matter,  and  finally  got  me  passed  on  to 
an  inner  chamber  where  a  skeptical  young  clerk 
and  two  young  women  stenographers  were  sifting 
the  sheep  from  the  goats.  It  was  quieter  in  here  and 
not  quite  so  odoriferous.  I  wrote  my  name  across 
the  pictures  —  comprehending  now  what  the  idea 
was  when  they  demanded  the  light  background. 
The  young  man  made  me  swear  again  —  and  then 
disfigured  my  picture  still  more  by  whacking  a 
rubber  stamp  which  said  "Granted"  across  it. 


130  SAILING  SOUTH 

Never  mind.   It  improved  the  picture,  if  anything! 

Then  we  went  out.  To  be  sure  it  was  n't  all  over, 
even  yet.  I  still  had  to  go  down  to  the  barge  office 
and  get  the  horrible  thing  "visaed"  —  and  was 
passed  from  one  custom-house  officer  to  another, 
amidst  great  crowds  of  steerage  applicants,  all  of  us 
seeking  permission  to  leave  the  U.S.A.  I  told  a 
dozen  bored  clerks  how  old  I  was  and  where  I  was 
born.  I  supplied  data  as  to  my  father  and  my 
mother.  I  confessed  that  I  was  merely  seeking 
pleasure.  I  was  "visaed,"  as  the  Government  calls 
it,  and  stamped  and  certified,  and  war-taxed  to  no 
end. 

Even  after  being  "visaed,"  you  find  that  there  is 
an  abundant  formality  about  leaving  shore.  At 
the  dock  they  stop  your  cab  at  the  very  gates  and 
tell  you  to  get  out.  You  enter  a  rude  shed,  heated  by 
a  red-hot  stove  that  was  built  in  1834.  Customs 
officers  demand  your  papers  —  and  look  you  over  to 
see  if  you  resemble  the  photographs.  If  you  do  not 
—  which  is  usually  and  very  fortunately  the  case — 
you  are  still  passed  along.  The  next  man  wants  to 
see  your  money.  He  demands  all  of  it  —  to  see  if 
you  are  supplied  with  any  gold,  silver,  or  certificates 
calling  for  either.  Somehow  it  appears  to  be  un- 
desirable to  let  the  Porto  Ricans  have  either  of  those 
useful  metals.  If  you  have  such  money,  it  is  taken 


PREPARING  FOR  PORTO  RICO      131 

away  and  you  are  given  the  kind  of  bills  the  Govern- 
ment does  permit  you  to  carry  —  Federal  Reserve 
notes,  or  ordinary  bank  notes.  Possibly  this  rigor 
has  been  mitigated  since,  however. 

Then  you  go  down  to  the  dock  waving  your  per- 
mit card,  so  all  the  world  may  see.  And  when  at  last 
you  climb  the  gangplank  to  the  ship,  you  are  solemnly 
warned  that  the  step  is  irrevocable.  Once  you  go  on 
board,  you  are  there  to  stay!  Lasciate  ogni  speranza! 
It  is  as  momentous  a  step  as  getting  married.  But 
as  you  expect  no  summons  to  return  and  as  your  one 
object  is  to  get  away  this  prospect  has  no  terrors. 
You  go  aboard  —  and  are  a  prisoner.  No  power 
short  of  Mr.  Wilson  can  get  you  back  on  land  now. 
It  is  verboten. 

But  you  forget  all  about  these  routine  bothers 
when  at  last  you  are  at  sea.  The  air  is  moist  and 
heavy  —  conducive  to  rest.  It  is  n't  like  wine  in  the 
nostrils;  it  is  more  like  treacle  —  or,  perhaps  better, 
laudanum !  Your  one  wish  is  to  stretch  yourself  out 
and  sleep,  save  when  you  get  into  the  wind.  The 
latter  revives  you  —  and  while  its  influence  prevails 
you  stand  out  in  the  very  bow  of  the  ship  watching 
the  flying  fish,  exclaiming  at  the  incredible  blue  of 
the  water,  and  in  general  chortling  over  your  un- 
expected luck  in  finding  summer  so  early. 

The  bromidioms  of  the  day  are: 


132  SAILING  SOUTH 

"I  don't  believe  the  water's  any  bluer  than  that 
in  the  Mediterranean!" 

"Can  you  believe  this  is  the  last  day  of  Febyou- 
ary?" 

The  Brazos  on  which  we  sailed  had  some  features 
that  appealed  to  me  despite  her  evident  years.  Her 
method  of  calling  the  devout  to  meals  is  a  very  ex- 
cellent one.  No  boisterous  bugle  shatters  the  tropic 
calm,  as  on  most  ships.  Instead  the  patient  deck 
steward,  whose  face  and  figure  recall  the  Artful 
Dodger,  ambles  nimbly  over  the  vessel  beating  a 
melodious  zylophone.  He  plays  no  real  tune,  though 
now  and  then  one  catches  certain  phrases  that  sug- 
gest the  leit  motif  of  "I  can't  get  'em  up!"  or  of 
"Where  did  you  get  that  hat?"  The  Mogul  who  is 
again  with  us,  is  entranced  by  this,  which  he  calls 
"making  a  joyful  noise  on  an  instrument  of  ten 
slats." 

The  stewards  are  mostly  South  Americans  or 
Porto  Ricans  —  which  is  to  say  not  negroes,  but 
cafe  au  lait  mixtures  of  Spanish  and  Indian.  They 
are  a  friendly  lot,  rather  childlike,  fairly  efficient, 
for  Southerners,  and  chiefly  to  be  criticized  for  their 
indifference  to  the  bell  calls.  The  process  of  sum- 
moning spirits  from  the  vasty  deep  is  akin  to  that  of 
getting  hot  water  for  your  morning  shave.  You  can 
call,  easily  enough  —  but  will  it  come  when  you  do 


PREPARING  FOR  PORTO  RICO      133 

summon  it?  Answer  is,  No!  The  deck  steward  is  a 
Cockney  —  a  thin-faced  Cockney,  who  leaves  much 
to  be  desired  in  the  way  of  performance,  but  is 
thoroughly  satisfactory  on  his  promissory  side. 
There  are  two  stewardesses  who  rival  ox-eyed  Juno 
and  Hebe  for  personal  charm. 

That  crabbed  but  by  no  means  dull  philosopher, 
the  late  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  once  remarked  that  a 
man  who  deliberately  confined  himself  in  a  ship  at 
sea  was  a  fool.  "  He  would  much  better  be  in  jail," 
thought  the  Doctor.  "For  a  man  in  prison  has  at 
least  as  much  liberty  —  has  better  lodging,  better 
food,  and  usually  better  company."  I  conclude  that 
this  dictum  is  rather  amusing  than  true.  I  am  for- 
ever sentencing  myself  to  voluntary  confinement 
aboard  ships  —  and  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  there  is 
a  tinge  of  verity  about  Ursa  Major's  caustic  remark, 
we  may  disregard  it  as  an  exaggeration.  It  is  at 
least  true  only  in  part.  I  never  saw  an  entirely  ideal 
ship's  company  yet  —  but  generally  you  find  one  or 
two  kindred  souls.  There  is  bound  to  be  at  least  one 
venerable  sage  who  voyaged  on  the  ocean  when 
steam  vessels  were  young  and  when  side-wheelers 
were  plying  between  New  York  and  Liverpool, 
although  this  ancient  type  is  disappearing.  There  is 
bound  to  be  a  set  unduly  devoted  to  games  of  chance 
in  the  smoke-room.  There  will  be  some  with  the  loud 


134  SAILING  SOUTH 

laugh  that  speaks  the  vacant  mind,  and  there  is 
almost  sure  to  be  one  example  of  "that  despicable 
thing  called  'the  life  of  the  ship."11  But  out  of  the 
average  passenger  list  you  will  find  many  who  can 
tell  you  much,  and  a  few  who  furnish  the  materials 
for  enduring  and  helpful  friendship. 
•  In  my  younger  days  I  had  a  seafaring  uncle  who 
sagely  advised  me  not  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
any  place  where  you  were  absolutely  dependent  on  a 
"bo't"  for  ingress  and  egress.  He  said,  and  quite 
truly,  that  this  involved  a  degree  of  uncertainty  and 
frequently  labor  and  sorrow.  "Bo'ts"  do  not  run 
with  the  meager  regularity  and  certitude  of  express 
trains  —  and,  as  we  all  know,  that  latter  regularity 
leaves  something  to  be  desired,  even  under  the  benign 
administration  of  such  as  the  excellent  Mr.  McAdoo! 
Boats  are  subject  to  manifold  mischances  unknown 
to  the  land;  and  sometimes  when  you  want  to  take 
one  it  either  is  n't  there,  or  does  n't  come,  or  has  n't 
any  staterooms  left. 

When  you  go  to  Porto  Rico  in  the  present  con- 
gested conditions  of  ocean  travel,  you  will  do  wisely 
to  make  absolutely  sure  of  being  provided  with  re- 
turn accommodation  before  you  start.  Otherwise 
there  may  not  be  enough  berths  to  go  'round  and 
you  may  have  to  wait  over  a  few  ships  —  of  which 
vessels  there  was  only  one  a  week  when  we  were 


PREPARING  FOR  PORTO  RICO      135 

there.  I  heard  many  a  tale  of  woe  as  I  later  stood  in 
line  in  the  steamer  office  at  San  Juan,  the  burden  of 
which  was  that  every  berth  had  been  booked  up 
until  the  middle  of  June,  "unless  some  one  gives  up 
one."  The  waiting  list  was  already  a  lengthy  affair. 
In  that  view  of  it,  my  uncle  was  right.  A  "bo't"  is 
a  mighty  uncertain  thing. 

But  if  I  had  plenty  of  money  • —  money  enough 
and  to  spare  —  I  cannot  conceive  of  a  better  place 
wherein  to  be  condemned  to  stay  indefinitely  than 
San  Juan.  I  can  vouch  for  it  as  delightful  in  climate 
and  in  almost  every  other  way.  But  I  would  advise 
you  to  make  double-sure  of  your  return  accommoda- 
tions before  you  go,  in  case  you  are  limited  as  to  time. 

Theoretically  there  are  several  lines  of  steamers 
running  to  Porto  Rico.  Practically  there  are  n't 
so  many.  None  of  the  lines  can  at  present  boast  of 
any  capacious  ocean-greyhounds  —  although  I  sus- 
pect that  any  of  the  ships  that  carry  passengers  at 
all  will  be  found  tolerable  enough.  Certainly  the 
regular  line,  hight  "New  York  and  Porto  Rico," 
which  operates  a  passenger  ship  once  in  each  week 
and  which  makes  the  voyage  in  about  five  days, 
manages  to  do  pretty  well  by  you.  The  present 
ships  are  not  very  young,  but  they're  competent. 
Not  the  least  comfortable  by  any  means  is  the  very 
oldest  of  them  all  —  an  aged  liner  that  a  generation 


136  SAILING  SOUTH 

ago  plied  between  New  York  and  England,  now 
named  "Coamo,"  but  having  silverware  marked 
"State  of  California."  The  worst  thing  about  the 
ships  is  that  they  sail  from  Brooklyn.  Once  you 
have  said  that,  and  once  you  have  made  up  your 
mind  that  a  vessel  of  this  type  is  not  going  to  be  the 
Mauretania,  or  the  Leviathan,  you  have  prepared 
your  soul  for  what,  in  ordinary  conditions  of  wind 
and  weather,  is  likely  to  be  an  admirable  midwinter 
trip  to  a  land  of  sunshine. 

They  that  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships  and  do 
business  in  the  great  waters  traditionally  know  and 
appreciate  the  wondrous  workings  of  the  Lord  — 
but  in  the  past  five  years  they  have  also  learned  to 
know  and  deprecate  the  evil  workings  of  man.  No 
sea  has  been  safe.  In  addition  to  the  natural  hazards 
oi  wind  and  wave,  fog  and  fire,  there  sprang  into 
being  the  dread  menaces  of  the  submarine.  That's 
all  over  now  —  but  while  it  lasted  the  Porto  Rico 
line  lost  one  of  the  best  of  its  ships.  The  Carolina 
was  torpedoed  at  sea  in  1916  by  a  wandering  Hun; 
and  while  most  of  her  people  got  off  safely,  a  few  were 
lost  by  the  upsetting  of  a  boat  and  the  ship  herself 
is  at  the  bottom.  It  was  a  bad  blow  to  the  line,  and 
it  taught  people  that  by  no  means  all  the  U-boat 
danger  lay  in  a  trip  to  the  other  side.  For  month 
after  month  those  Porto  Rico  ships  toiled  to  and  fro, 


PREPARING  FOR  PORTO  RICO      137 

painted  up  with  blue-and-white  camouflage,  dark- 
ened at  night,  guns  ever  ready,  lookouts  ever  vigilant. 
And  to-day,  with  the  camouflage  dimly  painted  out, 
with  the  lights  turned  on  again,  the  guns  removed 
and  the  ordinary  life  of  shipboard  resumed,  they  go 
religiously  through  the  boat  drill  and  still  make  you 
don  your  life-belt  for  practice.  I  appreciate  what  a 
serious  business  it  must  have  been  through  all 
those  months;  and  when  one  of  my  fellow-passen- 
gers, grotesquely  garbed  in  his  life-preserver  and 
standing  by  his  appointed  boat,  remarked  to  the 
purser  that  it  "seemed  rather  a  joke,"  the  purser 
looked  far  away  and  said,  "Well,  you  know,  we 
have  n't  got  back  even  yet  to  where  we  can  see  the 
joke  of  it!  It  was  pretty  real  to  us  for  a  good  many 
voyages,  and  the  fun  of  it  is  hard  to  see!" 

I  asked  the  skipper  if  it  was  n't  a  relief  to  have 
the  war  over  and  all  the  strain  of  it  —  a  foolish 
question,  and  the  bromidic  one.  He  said  it  was  a 
relief  —  naturally.  He  had  hated  running  without 
any  lights.  But  still  he  said  he  "got  kind  of  used  to 
it  —  until  they  signed  the  armistice  and  then  he 
went  all  to  pieces."  I  can  see  that  too.  To  have  had 
that  awful  nightmare,  which  sat  on  your  shoulder 
night  and  day  for  two  years,  suddenly  removed  — 
what  a  reaction  must  follow! 

One  day  we  saw  a  whale.    It  was  close  inboard, 


138  SAILING  SOUTH 

and  it  was  not  only  spouting  regularly,  but  was  so 
near  the  surface  that  now  and  again  its  long,  black 
body  rolled  lazily  into  view  on  the  swells.  I  suppose 
a  year  ago  the  gun  crew  would  have  turned  loose  on 
it  at  once,  just  because  no  one  in  those  days  took 
any  chances.  As  it  was,  we  all  shrieked,  "Whale!" 
And  those  who  had  never  seen  a  whale  shrieked, 
"Where?  Where? ' '  And  we  who  had  seen  it  shouted, 
"There!  There!  Over  by  that  wave!"  — in  that 
fatuous  way  that  we  always  do.  A  few  voyages  back 
the  passengers  would  all  probably  have  shouted 
"Submarine!"  and  dashed  for  their  life-belts.  Do 
you  remember  that  thing  in  Audran's  "Olivette" 
about  the  "Torpedo  and  the  Whale"?  They're 
much  alike,  you  know,  at  a  distance. 

So  the  good  ship  sailed  on  and  on,  and  all  at  once 
the  eye  of  faith  discerned  what  might  be  land  — 
loftily  lying  —  possibly  a  cloud,  but  looking  re- 
markably like  a  dim  and  distant  mountain.  The 
usual  skepticism  greeted  it,  for  landsmen  never  seem 
to  recognize  their  native  element  at  first  sight  when 
at  sea.  But  it  grew  and  grew,  and  in  a  little  while  it 
was  easy  to  see  that  the  dark  blur  was  really  tum- 
bling mountains.  At  their  foot  a  white  line  vaguely 
appeared  —  the  city  of  San  Juan.  Hour  by  hour  the 
island  took  shape,  and  then,  minute  by  minute,  the 
buildings  on  shore  disentangled  themselves.  Morro 


PREPARING  FOR  PORTO  RICO      139 

Castle  reared  its  lighthouse  into  view  —  and  as  dusk 
drew  on  the  lantern  began  its  regular  flashings. 
Huge  fires  of  withered  sugar  cane  filled  the  distant 
shores  with  drifting  smoke.  And  at  the  last,  with 
the  failing  sunset  glow,  the  Brazos  stole  into  the 
land-locked  harbor,  halted,  pivoted  on  her  heel ;  and 
with  the  ease  and  certitude  of  a  harbor  steamer  en- 
tered her  slip,  tied  up,  and  signaled  "Finished  with 
engines"  to  a  faithful  but  invisible  crew.  We  had 
arrived;  and  San  Juan,  twinkling  with  lights  and 
pallid  in  the  afterglow,  stood  before  us  shimmering 
in  the  warmth  of  a  tropical  evening. 


CHAPTER  X 

SAN  JUAN 

IF  it  was  difficult  to  get  aboard  the  steamer  at 
New  York  in  order  to  be  allowed  to  depart  for 
Porto  Rico,1  it  was  more  difficult  still  to  obtain 

1  Porto  Rico,  the  smallest  of  the  Greater  Antilles,  lies  one  thousand 
miles  from  Havana  and  fourteen  hundred  miles  from  New  York.  It 
contains  a  trifle  over  three  thousand  square  miles.  Columbus  visited 
it  November  19,  1493,  substituting  the  name  San  Juan  Bautista  for 
the  native  name  of  Borinquen.  Ponce  de  Le6n,  who  visited  the  island 
in  1509,  discovered  gold  there  and  was  made  governor.  Revolts  of  the 
Indians  against  the  Spaniards  led  to  the  virtual  extermination  of  the 
former  only  a  few  years  later.  French,  Dutch,  and  British  at  various 
times  attacked  the  island,  but  the  territory  remained  persistently 
Spanish,  despite  an  occasional  revolution  of  abortive  character,  down 
to  the  time  of  the  war  between  Spain  and  the  United  States  —  most 
of  this  time  under  a  military  government,  but  with  a  belated  auton- 
omy granted  as  recently  as  1897.  May  12,  1898,  Admiral  Sampson 
bombarded  the  chief  city,  San  Juan,  but  wrought  comparatively  lit- 
tle damage;  and  a  land  force  working  up  from  the  south  reduced  the 
island  to  American  possession  which  was  subsequently  confirmed  by 
the  peace  protocols.  Civil  government  under  the  American  jurisdic- 
tion was  inaugurated  in  1900,  Charles  H.  Allen  becoming  the  first 
governor.  The  governor  and  other  administrative  officers  are  ap- 
pointed by  the  President  of  the  United  States;  the  legislative  body 
consists  of  a  senate  of  nineteen  members  and  a  house  of  thirty-nine 
—  the  latter  elected  by  the  citizens  of  the  island,  who  have  been 
granted  citizenship  in  the  United  States  as  well.  The  island  also  has  a 
resident  commissioner  in  the  United  States,  chosen  for  a  four-year 
term,  who  represents  Porto  Rico  in  the  American  Congress.  Party 
divisions  in  the  island  include  various  brands  of  home-rulers  and 
advocates  of  entire  independence,  as  well  as  a  party  anxious  for  en- 
larged Americanization. 


SAN  JUAN  141 

permission  to  go  ashore  there  once  we  had  arrived. 
I  assumed  that  once  the  New  York  port  authorities 
had  satisfied  themselves  that  I  was  a  proper  person 
to  leave  the  United  States  • —  having  given  one 
look  at  that  permit,  adorned  with  the  forbidding 
photographs  of  Katrina  and  me  —  the  federal 
agents  at  San  Juan  would  take  their  word  for  it. 
Not  so. 

It  was  a  fairly  hot  night  under  the  most  favorable 
conditions;  but  next  to  an  airless  and  covered  dock, 
roofed  with  the  corrugated  iron  which  all  earth- 
quake countries  so  dearly  love;  and  wedged  as  we 
all  were  in  a  queue  of  perspiring  humanity  down 
the  narrow  corridors  of  the  ship,  Tophet  itself  had 
no  thermometer  quite  adequate  to  the  demands  of 
the  occasion. 

A  fat  official  clothed  in  white  samite,  or  some 
such  garment,  stood  at  one  end  of  the  gangplank. 
The  purser  did  abide  at  his  left  side,  and  kept  the 
bridge  with  him.  Opposite  stood  a  Porto  Rican 
assistant,  of  meager  English  speech  and  of  still 
more  limited  intelligence.  Between  these  Cerberi 
we  all  had  to  proceed.  Each  in  turn  produced  his 
little  card  with  his  personal  history  and  his  picture 
on  it. 

The  native  officer  was  most  painstaking.  He 
studied  the  photographs  to  no  end,  glancing  from 


142  SAILING  SOUTH 

time  to  time  at  the  original  to  see  if  he  could  detect 
any  resemblance.  He  dutifully  read  every  word 
inscribed  thereon.  And  having  done  all  this,  he 
naturally  found  that  everything  was  all  right;  so 
that  one  by  one,  rather  like  molasses  blobbing  out 
of  a  narrow  hole,  our  ship's  company  dribbled  drop 
after  drop  into  the  aromatic  vastness  of  the  wharf 
below. 

There  was  no  medical  inspection  whatever,  and 
there  was  no  searching  of  our  luggage.  Either  pro- 
ceeding would  have  been  far  more  defensible  than 
this  absurd  scrutiny  of  our  near-passports.  Our 
mere  presence  on  the  boat  was  guaranty  that  we 
had  been  passed  by  New  York  and  were  reputable 
enough.  But  we  might  have  contracted  cholera  or 
typhus  on  the  trip,  and  our  trunks  might  have  been 
filled  with  whiskey,  for  all  these  San  Juan  author- 
ities knew  —  and  they  let  us  in  on  trust,  so  far  as 
concerned  our  health  or  our  intent  to  fracture  the 
strictly  prohibitory  laws  of  Porto  Rico.  Commend 
me  to  bureaucracy  for  solid  ivoriness  of  dome,  as  the 
vivid  vernacular  hath  it. 

There  are  a  few  books  extant  on  Porto  Rico.  The 
most  capable  one  I  have  seen,  written  by  one  Ver- 
rall,  states  that  after  landing  in  San  Juan  and  upon 
experiencing  the  usual  mingled  joys  of  debarkation, 
the  hasty  tourist  is  apt  to  conclude  that  it  is  one  of 


SAN  JUAN  143 

the  most  expensive  places  in  the  world.  I  concur  — 
for,  indeed,  the  author  nowhere  says  a  truer  word. 
There  is  no  avoiding  the  fact  that  on  your  first 
arrival  you  are  fair  game  for  the  native  of  any 
country,  and  you  are  peculiarly  at  his  mercy  in 
San  Juan.  Who  is  going  to  tell  you  that  the  Palace 
Hotel,  which  lately  you  saw  sticking  up  out  of  the 
houses  as  you  came  in,  is  only  about  three  minutes' 
walk  from  the  landing?  You  are  hot,  tired,  anxious 
for  your  bed  or  your  dinner.  There  is  a  lot  of  lug- 
gage to  go  up  with  you.  There  are  numerous 
motors  congregated  outside,  all  honking  their  horns 
in  the  hot  dusk  and  all  officered  by  vociferous 
touts,  who  all  want  you  to  ride.  Who  is  going  to 
be  such  a  kill-joy  as  to  inform  you  that  the  local 
tariff  for  all  motor  cars  is  $1.50  the  ride,  whether 
you  go  two  blocks  or  twenty?  So  you  clamber  into 
the  car  —  and  inside  of  the  tiny  period  traditionally 
required  for  shaking  the  caudal  appendage  of  a 
youthful  sheep  you  are  landed  at  the  hotel  door. 
The  unblushing  driver  demands  three  dollars!  He 
will  eventually  take  $1.50  —  and  even  then  he  will 
be  a  thief  and  a  robber! 

Somewhat  later  the  polite  and  solid  ebony  negro 
to  whom  you  turned  over  your  trunks  on  the  pier 
comes  along  with  his  load  —  and  his  minimum  re- 
quirement is  $5.50.  Mr.  Verrall  is  entirely  within  the 


144  SAILING  SOUTH 

limits  of  verity,  so  far  as  concerned  one's  erroneous 
first  impressions. 

I  may  add,  however,  that  when  the  festive  Porto 
Rican  has  done  this  unseemly  thing  to  you  on  your 
first  arrival,  he  has  done  his  very  worst  and  lets  up 
on  you.  He  has  to,  of  course,  because  by  this  time 
you  are  more  wise.  You  discover  in  a  very  brief 
tour  of  the  town  that  it  can  be  perambulated  about 
from  end  to  end  in  fifteen  minutes  of  leisurely  stroll ; 
and  the  seductive  tongue  of  'the  taxi-driver,  or 
taxidermist,  or  whatever  you  call  him,  thereafter 
wags  to  you  in  vain.  San  Juan  is  n't  really  an  ex- 
pensive place  at  all.  It  only  seems  so  for  about 
thirty  minutes  on  your  first  appearance.  Next  day 
it  develops  that  it  is  a  very  clean,  very  hospitable, 
very  diminutive,  and  altogether  reasonable  town. 
A  thoroughly  competent  hotel  offers  you  hospitality 
with  bath,  bed  and  board  for  some  such  trifle  as, 
say,  six  or  seven  dollars  a  day,  todos  comprendidos. 
An  itinerant  vendor  is  willing  to  sell  you  a  flexible 
straw  hat  for  a  very  reasonable  price.  And  a  ready- 
made  suit  of  Palm  Beach  cloth  can  be  got  for  very 
little  money,  which  will  not  pull  apart  until  after 
at  least  one  trip  to  the  tubs.  No  sane  tourist  would 
complain  of  that. 

San  Juan,  the  capital  city  of  Porto  Rico,  occupies 
an  ideal  situation  on  the  northerly  side  of  the  island 


SAN  JUAN  145 

and  well  toward  the  eastern  end  of  that  side.  It  is  a 
city  built  on  a  tiny  island  of  its  own,  which  makes  a 
natural  breakwater  enclosing  a  broad  and  capacious, 
if  rather  shallow,  bay.  Indeed,  there  is  a  striking 
similarity  between  the  bay  and  that  at  Havana. 
Ships  of  considerable  tonnage  may  enter  through 
the  narrow  channel  between  the  Morro  fort  and  the 
little  island  hard  by  —  which  latter  is  fondly  be- 
lieved to  harbor  an  asylum  for  lepers  —  and  will 
find  themselves  in  a  perfectly  protected  basin,  se- 
cure from  every  stormy  wind  that  blows.  When  we 
arrived  there  was  a  big,  gray  liner  moored  in  the 
midst  of  the  harbor  —  obviously  a  former  German. 
She  turned  out  to  be  the  old  Bliicher,  once  a  favorite 
Hamburg-American  ship,  but  now  the  property  of 
Brazil  and  prettily  renamed  Leopoldina.  She  had 
got  thus  far  on  her  way  from  Rio  to  New  York,  and 
she  was  in  no  hurry  to  proceed.  The  officers  liked 
San  Juan,  and  lingered.  It  was  warm,  and  the  food 
was  good,  and  the  dancing  was  excellent  o'  nights. 
Of  other  shipping  there  was  little,  save  for  bits  of 
fishing  boats  with  lateen  sails  and  a  little  swarm  of 
coastwise  schooners.  But  from  day  to  day  small 
steam  craft  came  and  went,  and  the  harbor  was 
never  a  dull  spot  to  watch.  A  tiny  ferry  plied  back 
and  forth  between  the  city  and  a  diminutive  settle- 
ment, Catano,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  harbor. 


146  SAILING  SOUTH 

And  far  away,  across  this  pleasant  inland  sea,  there 
rolled  the  rugged  summits  of  the  mountains  — 
none  of  them  very  high,  but  all  abrupt  —  which 
form  the  backbone  of  the  island  and  divide  its 
northern  from  its  southern  side.  In  the  foreground, 
closer  to  the  bay,  we  saw  an  infinitude  of  little  con- 
ical hills,  strongly  suggestive  of  chicken  timbales. 

San  Juan  itself  occupies  a  gradual  slope,  ascend- 
ing from  the  inland  harbor  till  it  reaches  the  edge 
of  the  outer  cliffs,  at  which  point  the  land  drops 
abruptly  into  the  Atlantic.  I  should  say  that  the 
island  on  which  the  city  is  built  must  be  about  two 
miles  long  and  about  half  a  mile  wide,  extending 
east  and  west.  On  its  outer  side  and  well  around 
toward  the  harbor  the  city  is  provided  with  a  pro- 
digious wall,  erected  by  the  early  Spaniards  and 
dutifully  provided  at  every  angle  with  projecting 
sentry-boxes  of  stone.  If  there  was  ever  a  similar 
wall  on  the  harbor  front,  or  on  the  end  of  the  island 
whence  the  highway  leads  into  the  country,  it  has 
disappeared.  But  on  the  seaward  side  the  fortifica- 
tions are  in  splendid  condition  still;  and  the  old 
fortresses  of  the  Morro,  San  Cristobal,  and  so  on, 
were,  at  the  time  of  our  visit,  in  the  hands  of  troops 
—  American  soldiers,  chiefly,  whose  one  regret,  in 
addition  to  their  sorrow  at  being  sent  there  instead 
of  to  France,  was  that  they  could  n't  get  home. 


ANCIENT  SEA  WALL,  SAN  JUAN 


SAN  JUAN  147 

One  soon  discovers  that  these  soldiers  are  friendly, 
and  are  most  anxious  to  have  speech  with  people 
from  the  States.  The  very  first  night,  as  we  were 
prowling  around  the  town  in  a  vain  search  for  pina 
fria  —  a  cooling  drink  made  of  fresh  pineapple  and 
well  known  in  Havana  —  two  sergeants  and  a 
corporal  volunteered  to  help  and  aired  their  Spanish 
with  much  gusto,  but  with  deplorably  little  effect. 

Which  brings  me  to  the  point  that  unless  you  re- 
member some  of  your  Spanish,  you  may  at  times 
find  it  difficult  to  make  your  wants  known  in  the 
island,  despite  the  fact  that  the  American  occupa- 
tion dates  back  more  than  a  score  of  years.  I  cannot 
conceive  how  it  happens,  but  in  this  prolonged 
period  our  country  has  done  precious  little  to 
Americanize  the  island  beyond  making  the  place 
sanitary  and  compelling  the  shops  to  close  on  Sun- 
days. We  have  organized  a  very  admirable  native 
police  • —  splendid-looking  men,  whose  chief  func- 
tion in  life  is  to  regulate  traffic  in  the  narrow  streets. 
We  have  made  the  island  a  most  healthy  spot.  We 
have  built  excellent  roads  into  every  corner  of  it. 
We  have  planted  schoolhouses  in  every  hollow  and 
on  every  hillock.  But  we  have  made  as  little  im- 
pression as  you  can  imagine  on  the  language,  which 
remains  Spanish  to  a  very  marked  degree.  Even 
the  Palace  Hotel  spoke  a  most  meager  and  limited 


148  SAILING  SOUTH 

brand  of  English;  and  I,  who  had  possessed  some 
smattering  of  Spanish  years  ago,  found  that  while 
it  came  back  very  hard  it  was  extremely  useful.  It 
was  never  very  good  Spanish,  and  in  its  best  estate 
it  was  devoid  of  any  verbs  beyond  the  present  tense. 
But  such  as  it  was  it  managed  to  smooth  away 
many  a  rough  place  in  the  course  of  the  week  or 
two.  A  Porto  Rican  here  and  there  will  claim  to 
speak  English  —  but  in  most  cases  he  does  n't 
really,  and  often  only  pretends  to  understand  be- 
cause that  is  agreeable  to  you.  Moral:  Study  Span- 
ish before  you  take  the  trip.  You  '11  have  an  easier 
time. 

My  first  discovery  was  that  a  very  eligible  shop- 
ping street  bore  the  name  of  Calle  Allen  —  in  short 
was  named  for  my  distinguished  neighbor,  first 
governor  of  Porto  Rico  back  in  1900,  who  is  still 
held  in  affectionate  memory  by  inhabitants  of 
middle  age.  It  was  but  a  step  from  the  hotel  to  the 
governor's  official  palace;  and  although  the  present 
governor  was  away,  it  was  possible  to  visit  the  of- 
ficial residence  and  its  deep,  luxuriant,  and  tropical 
garden  just  above  the  sea-wall.  If  I  could  secure 
the  removal  from  its  state  apartments  of  certain 
paintings,  —  done  by  whom  I  suspect  to  be  gifted 
local  sign-painters  and  libeling  shamefully  certain 
of  our  presidents  and  generals,  —  I  think  I  should 


SAN  JUAN  149 

much  enjoy  living  in  the  governor's  palace  at  San 
Juan.  Governor  Allen's  portrait  is  hung  there  too  — 
but  I  should  want  to  leave  that.  It  was  my  pass- 
port and  my  introduction;  for  as  we  stood  before 
it  murmuring  things  about  amigo  viejo,  behold  the 
attendant  brightened.  Did  we  really  know  Gov- 
ernor Allen?  Yes?  Well,  perhaps  we  might  like  to 
see  the  rest  of  the  house!  So  we  invaded  intimate 
precincts  not  often  shown,  and  thereafter  com- 
manded the  friendly  salutations  of  the  officers  on 
guard  whenever  we  went  by  —  which  was  daily. 

Apart  from  the  slight  inconvenience  imposed 
upon  an  American  visitor  by  not  being  able  to  talk 
the  lingo,  it  is  a  positive  blessing  that  San  Juan  re- 
mains so  foreign.  It  is  delightfully  so.  The  houses 
are  painted  in  pale  washes  of  greens,  reds,  pinks, 
yellows  —  and  the  deep  doorways  are  forever  giv- 
ing you  glimpse  of  fascinating  patios,  or  courts,  well 
within,  where  blossoms  many  an  incense-bearing 
tree.  Family  groups  congregate  under  the  grateful 
shadow  of  the  lofty  walls  —  including  a  host  of 
little  brown  babies,  as  naked  as  the  moment  they 
were  born,  gamboling  unashamed.  Their  mothers 
object  to  having  them  photographed,  though,  in 
that  condition  —  discovering  a  sudden  modesty,  or 
maybe  a  fear  of  the  evil  eye. 

The  Spanish  predilection  for  sacred  names  blooms 


150  SAILING  SOUTH 

forth  in  the  nomenclature  of  the  people  and  of  the 
highways.  Just  above  our  hotel  there  was  a  long 
street  ending  in  a  sort  of  arched  chapel  —  a  votive 
offering  to  the  Virgin,  because  once  she  appeared 
there  and  with  upraised  hand  halted  a  runaway 
horse  which  was  about  to  plunge  with  his  driver 
into  the  sea  beneath.  That  street  is  the  Calle  Santo 
Cristo  —  the  street  of  the  Holy  Christ.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  hotel  was  the  Street  of  the  Holy  Cross  — 
and  any  amount  of  saintly  streets  will  be  found  to 
criss-cross  the  town  as  you  go  about.  But  the 
ghostly  have  not  all  their  own  way.  If  a  street  is 
not  named  for  some  member  of  the  Holy  Family, 
or  for  some  of  the  glorious  company  of  the  Apostles, 
it  is  almost  sure  to  be  named  for  some  local  mag- 
nate, like  Salvadore  Brau,  or  Baldorioty  Somebody. 
And  one  street  in  especial  bothered  us  by  being 
named  Tetuan  Street  —  although  what  the  con- 
nection might  be  between  Porto  Rico  and  this 
North-African  name  we  never  found  out. 

On  Sunday  the  shops  may  not  sell  merchandise. 
Even  the  apothecary  refuses  to  sell  you  a  kodak 
film.  But  the  opera  runs  two  performances,  full 
blast,  on  that  day,  and  the  hotel  has  a  jazz  dance 
at  dinner-time,  followed  by  a  roof -garden  ball  that 
lasts  until  early  Monday.  Consistency  is  the  usual 
jewel,  even  under  tropic  skies. 


SAN  JUAN  151 

Liquor  is  not  sold,  and  so  far  as  I  can  discover 
prohibition  in  Porto  Rico  actually  does  prohibit. 
Porto  Rico  voted  this  measure  a  year  or  two  in 
advance  of  the  States  and  is  admittedly  a  little 
stunned  by  the  situation  now  that  she  is  waking  up 
to  it.  The  next  ship  after  ours  brought  down  fifteen 
cases  of  ostensible  canned  salmon,  which  were  dis- 
covered by  the  police  in  the  nick  of  time  to  be 
Martell  brandy.  A  kind  of  pulque,  or  aguardiente, 
or  something  of  the  sort,  is  said  to  be  capable  of 
being  made  at  home  out  of  boiled  sugar-cane  juice; 
but  I  saw  no  intoxicated  person  on  the  island 
during  my  own  brief  stay  —  which  is  a  good  thing, 
for  they  say  the  Porto  Rican  of  the  lowlier  sort 
never  carried  his  liquor  well ;  and  as  he  was  usually 
armed  with  his  machete  in  the  country  districts,  his 
lapses  from  sobriety  often  took  on  a  murderous 
cast.  When  sober  he  is  a  rather  friendly  soul, 
swarthy,  indolent  when  in  funds,  and  much  given 
to  oratory  rather  than  to  music. 

There  are  several  shades  of  color  in  San  Juan 
among  the  resident  population.  There  are  a  few 
Americans  —  not  so  many  as  you  would  think. 
There  are  proud  Spanish  families  of  ancient  lineage. 
There  are  obvious  hybrids,  apparently  a  mixture 
of  Spanish  and  Indian.  And  there  are  also  negroes. 
On  Sunday  night,  which  happened  in  our  case  to  be 


152  SAILING  SOUTH 

in  the  Carnival  season,  the  populace  disported  itself 
in  the  main  plaza,  marching  about  while  the  band 
played.  No  negroes  were  allowed  to  promenade  — 
and  whenever  the  police  perceived  a  dusky  person 
with  kinky  hair  in  the  procession,  he,  or  she,  was 
gently  but  firmly  removed  and  put  on  the  side- 
lines. It  appeared  that  kinky  hair  was  the  test.  No 
less  dusky  parties  whose  hair  was  straight  seemed 
to  pass  muster  all  right.  Meantime  one  could  hire 
chairs  for  ten  cents  and  watch  the  show  —  and  the 
show  involved  the  showering  of  confetti  and  the 
douching  of  bystanders  with  perfumery,  squirted 
from  tiny  siphons.  Of  this  custom,  I  later  discov- 
ered, the  local  press  was  disposed  to  make  a  griev- 
ance, on  the  ground  that  it  was  a  nuisance  which  had 
now  and  then  its  dangerous  features.  Certainly  it 
made  a  most  prodigious  reek  of  scent,  which  was 
cloying  —  and  besides  it  got  into  your  eyes  and 
down  your  neck.  You  were  supposed  to  laugh  and 
say  nothing.  I  believe  this  practice  has  been  done 
away  since. 

Newspapers  in  San  Juan  are  plentiful  • —  all  sell- 
ing for  three  cents  and  all  apparently  eagerly  read. 
The  Mogul  and  I,  being  editors  and  denominat- 
ing ourselves  the  Veteran  Journalists'  Association, 
bought  them  all  religiously.  They  come  out  at 
varied  hours.  El  Mundo  is  procurable  at  breakfast. 


SAN  JUAN  153 

El  Tiempo  (with  an  English  section)  comes  out 
accommodatingly  during  the  forenoon.  Correspond- 
encia  and  Democratic,  appear  still  later.  The  tourist 
finds  his  name  dutifully  reported,  but  often  spelled 
wrong,  and  experiences  a  thrill. 

One  who  visits  both  Havana  and  San  Juan  will 
find  a  certain  similarity  in  the  two,  apart  from  the 
situation  of  each  on  the  borders  of  a  landlocked 
harbor.  They  have  much  in  common  as  a  Spanish 
heritage,  although  the  Cuban  city  is  by  far  the 
larger  of  the  two.  They  are  of  nearly  equal  age  and 
the  latitude  of  each  is  so  nearly  the  same  as  to  pro- 
duce a  similar  development  in  each  case.  Havana 
is  the  more  gay,  perhaps,  as  the  larger  town  is 
likely  to  be.  San  Juan  is  the  more  sedate.  But  the 
two  may  be  bracketed  as  having  a  certain  character- 
istic in  common  which  suffices  to  differentiate  them 
from  the  other  considerable  centers  of  population 
in  islands  of  the  same  general  group  —  to  wit,  their 
age  and  evident  permanence. 

Both  Havana  and  San  Juan  lie  far  enough  out- 
side the  earthquake  belt  to  have  adopted  the  endur- 
ing material,  stone,  which  more  southerly  localities 
have  found  it  imprudent  to  use.  In  them  one  finds 
the  high  walls,  the  deep  and  shaded  streets,  so 
pleasant  in  a  climate  which  is  often  torrid  and  never 
cold.  There  is  a  mellowness  about  the  ancient 


154  SAILING  SOUTH 

buildings,  mossed  and  mildewed  by  centuries  of 
sun  and  rain,  which  one  misses  in  the  more  flimsy 
and  wide-open  streets  of  cities  subject  to  earth 
shocks  and  occasional,  if  not  frequent,  destruction. 
Fortunate,  indeed,  is  the  tropic  city  which  may 
safely  emulate  the  Moors  of  old  by  lining  its  thor- 
oughfares with  tall  houses,  closely  set,  so  that  the 
glaring  sun  makes  but  fleeting  visits  to  the  depths 
below. 


CHAPTER  XI 
AN  ISLAND  CAPITAL 

IT  may  serve  to  give  an  idea  of  the  climate  of 
San  Juan,  Porto  Rico,  to  mention  the  fact  that 
the  Palace  Hotel  (antes  Inglaterra)  has  no  windows. 

It  has  apertures  in  the  walls,  of  course  —  loads  of 
them;  but  there  are  no  panes  therein,  chiefly  be- 
cause they  are  n't  necessary.  In  Porto  Rico  it  is 
always  midsummer.  I  recall  no  glass  windows  in 
the  hostelry,  save  such  as  fill  the  occasional  internal 
openings  designed  to  give  light  to,  but  not  a  view 
of,  your  bathroom.  The  outward  windows  have 
shutters,  only  —  to  keep  out  the  sun.  The  air  is  not 
only  not  a  thing  to  be  kept  out;  it  is  to  be  invited 
and  encouraged  to  come  in. 

Out  of  the  unshuttered  window  you  look  across  a 
sea  of  flat  roofs,  upon  the  tiles  of  which  the  domestic 
life  of  the  city  is  largely  led.  In  the  freshness  of 
morning,  or  in  the  cool  of  a  tropic  evening,  you  will 
see  the  inhabitants  disporting  themselves  there  in 
joyous  "dishybill,"  with  their  children  and  pets. 
They  occasionally  take  note  of  you  in  return.  I  dis- 
covered somewhat  to  my  discomfiture  —  although 
I  got  used  to  it  in  time  —  that  while  I  was  taking  a 


156  SAILING  SOUTH 

pleasant  morning  shower-bath  in  front  of  a  tall  open 
window  I  was  plainly  visible  to  an  opulent  colored 
mammy,  who  signified  her  good-humor  by  waving 
her  hand.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wave  back. 
She  and  her  parrot,  which  latter  hung  in  a  sort  of 
aerial  vestibule  on  the  adjacent  roof,  became  at 
long  range  my  familiar  friends. 
r  The  average  prevailing  temperature  of  San  Juan 
is  probably  described  in  the  weather  reports  as 
"mean"  —  after  the  uncomplimentary  way  of  offi- 
cial documents  of  the  sort.  This  does  it  injustice. 
I  have  n't  an  idea  what  the  average  midday  ther- 
mometric  reading  is,  but  should  guess  that  it  would 
be  around  86°  in  the  shade  —  a  decent  summer- 
time temperature,  usually  well  tempered  by  a  brisk 
easterly  wind  from  the  sea,  a  trade  wind  of  very 
dependable  character,  upon  which  the  island  relies 
for  its  escape  from  a  too  torrid  existence.  Most  of 
the  year  it  blows  with  regularity  —  and  curiously 
enough  the  most  uncomfortable  periods  are  not 
found  in  the  depth  of  summer,  but  rather  are  said  to 
occur  in  the  spring  and  the  fall  of  the  year. 

By  staying  out  of  the  sun  you  may  easily  escape 
the  heat  that  smiteth  at  noonday,  and  if  you  are  on 
the  breezy  side  of  the  house  you  will  be  comfortable 
enough.  As  in  most  hot  climates,  all  the  world  does 
this;  and  life  undergoes  a  suspension  of  normal  ac- 


AN  ISLAND  CAPITAL  157 

tivities  from  lunch-time  until  along  toward  four  in 
the  afternoon.  Then  it  picks  up,  goes  back  to  the 
job,  and  continues  thereon  for  a  goodly  part  of  the 
night.  There  is  no  denying  that  San  Juan  is  rea- 
sonably noisy  throughout  the  evening.  The  streets 
are  very  narrow,  necessitating  an  abundant  awaken- 
ing of  the  echoes  by  the  warning  horns  of  the  motor 
cars.  The  trolley  cars  —  there  are  several  lines  — 
proceed  at  a  deliberate  pace,  but  with  much  clang- 
ing of  the  bell  and  much  squealing  on  the  curves. 
For  early  slumber  it  is  desirable  to  have  what  the 
psychologists  call  a  "high  noise- threshold "  to  your 
sensorium ;  and  the  wise  will  also  court  a  room  on  the 
windward  side  of  the  hotel,  even  though  this  may 
afford  the  less  inspiring  views.  For  bedclothing  a 
sheet  and  a  mosquito-bar  are  all-sufficient,  save  in 
wholly  unusual  and  abnormal  conditions. 

My  own  windows,  not  being  on  the  cool  side,  gave 
compensation  in  that  they  not  only  afforded  me  a 
familiarity  with  the  voluminous  negress  above  re- 
ferred to,  but  also  gave  a  comprehensive  view  of 
the  inner  bay,  the  distant  mountains,  and  the  tiny 
nearer  hills,  which  I  have  come  to  call  the  "chicken 
croquettes." 

Not  only  is  the  Palace  Hotel  devoid  of  windows. 
It  does  away  also  with  a  goodly  share  of  roof.  It  is 
built  around  a  circular  patio  which  is  open  to  the 


158  SAILING  SOUTH 

sky,  much  like  the  ancient  impluvium  of  the  Romans. 
If  it  rains  —  and  it  rains  rather  frequently  in  San 
Juan,  as  well  as  at  times  very  hard  • —  a  share  of  the 
moisture  comes  down  into  the  office  and  makes  glad 
the  goldfish  in  the  central  fountain.  Generally  this 
inundation  does  no  harm,  beyond  making  people 
pull  their  chairs  back  under  the  covered  parts  of  the 
assembly  place ;  but  in  a  really  torrential  downpour 
I  understand  the  flood  encroaches  upon  the  adjacent 
dining-room.  However,  the  room  is  all  clean  white 
tiles  and  the  rain  never  lasts  long. 

It  became  our  custom  to  stand  on  the  topmost 
balcony  of  the  hotel,  looking  down  upon  the  central 
court,  and  to  cast  pennies  thence  into  the  fountain 
—  on  the  theory  that  if  you  did  this  you  would  some 
day  return,  just  as  they  say  you  will  do  if  you  throw 
soldi  into  the  fountain  of  Trevi  at  Rome.  None  of 
us  ever  succeeded  in  landing  a  coin  in  the  fountain. 
This  procedure  is  not  so  extravagant  as  it  sounds, 
because  apart  from  the  occasional  purchase  of  a 
newspaper  you  have  very  little  use  for  our  ignoble 
copper  coinage  in  San  Juan. 

Naturally,  since  Porto  Rico  is  a  part  of  the  United 
States,  it  uses  American  money  and  American  post- 
age stamps.  Unless  things  have  changed  there  is 
urgent  need,  however,  for  some  nice,  clean,  new 
money  in  the  island.  Under  the  watchful  eye  of  the 


SIDE-HILL  STREET,  SAN  JUAN 


AN  ISLAND  CAPITAL  159 

American  Government,  people  leaving  New  York 
for  Porto  Rico  have  been  made  to  exhibit  all  their 
cash ;  and  if  it  is  in  the  form  of  notes  calling  for  gold 
or  silver  on  demand,  all  such  bills  are  taken  away 
from  one,  and  less  impressive  notes  substituted  for 
them.  Actual  gold,  of  course,  is  also  impounded. 

But  the  general  result  upon  the  money  in  circu- 
lation in  Porto  Rico  has  been  to  produce  the  dirtiest, 
shaggiest,  flimsiest  set  of  bank  notes  you  ever  saw. 
Porto  Rico  apologizes  for  these,  but  hands  them 
over  to  you  perforce  as  the  best  she  can  find.  It 
cannot  go  on  forever.  Sooner  or  later  the  Govern- 
ment will  have  to  make  a  clean-up,  gather  in  the  old 
bills,  and  start  some  brand-new  ones  in  circulation 
there. 

Looking  back  on  it  now,  I  do  not  recall  that  I 
saw  a  single  pleasure  vehicle  in  San  Juan  drawn  by 
a  horse.  The  motor  is  everywhere,  and  the  least 
plethoric  inhabitants  seem  to  get  hold  of  cars  of 
surprisingly  good  make.  Meanwhile  gasoline  is  ex- 
traordinarily expensive  —  I  forget  what  it  costs,  but 
something  approaching  fifty  cents  a  gallon  in  1919, 
and  possibly  more  since.  This  is  reflected  in  the 
rates  of  motor  hire,  but  it  does  n't  seem  to  militate 
against  the  universal  use  of  automobiles.  I  saw  a 
horse  or  two  drawing  a  garbage  wagon  —  but  no 
others.  Net  result,  surprisingly  clean  streets  and 


160  SAILING  SOUTH 

surprisingly  few  flies.  There  are  some  mosquitoes  — 
but  nothing  like  the  number  you  find  in  Ponce,  over 
on  the  other  side  of  the  island.  Some  of  our  party 
reported  seeing  cockroaches  of  truly  heroic  size 
promenading  the  public  streets  in  pairs,  but  I  missed 
these.  Lizards  —  trim,  brisk,  friendly  little  fellows 
—  you  expect  to  see  frisking  over  sunny  walls.  I 
think  I  heard  mention  of  an  occasional  flea  —  al- 
though much  less  often  than  in  Sicily  or  in  San 
Francisco. 

Goats  and  kids  are  everywhere,  and  I  suppose 
there  are  also  cows,  although  I  do  not  recall  seeing 
any.  One  passing  through  the  country  sees  hosts  of 
steers  and  bullocks,  but  the  mooly-cow  is  probably 
kept  in  a  sort  of  secluded  harem  somewhere.  Even  in 
the  best  hotels  the  milk  leaves  something  to  be 
desired,  and  cream  apparently  does  n't  exist.  The 
population  buys  its  milk  at  retail  from  certain  spec- 
ified milk  stations  scattered  about  the  city  —  and 
a  familiar  sight  is  a  long  queue  of  people,  chiefly 
women  and  children,  waiting  to  procure  the  day's 
supply.  It  comes  in  huge  cans  borne  in  a  boy-drawn 
barrow  —  and  the  barrow  generally  arrives  at  top- 
speed  accompanied  by  joyous  shouts.  The  first  time 
I  heard  the  milk  wagon  coming  I  thought  it  was  the 
fire  engines. 

San  Juan  does  n't  go  in  for  flowers,  so  far  as  I  can 


AN  ISLAND  CAPITAL  161 

discern.  There  is  a  splendid  garden  outside  the 
governor's  official  palace,  and  there  may  be  some 
meager  attempts  at  horticulture  in  some  of  those 
secluded  patios,  which  you  get  glimpses  of  as  you 
walk  around  the  city.  There  is  a  splendid  grassy  and 
woodsy  terrace  overlooking  the  sea  just  beneath 
the  ancient  Casa  Blanca  —  an  old  mansion  said  to 
have  been  built  by  Ponce  de  Le6n.  But  if  you  really 
want  gardens  and  greenery  you  have  to  go  out  of  the 
congested  city  and  over  to  the  alluring  suburbs  of 
Condado  and  Santurce,  where  the  aristocratic  peo- 
ple live  in  low-roofed  bungalows  deep  in  a  tangle  of 
bamboo,  palms,  eucalyptus,  and  poincianas.  I  can- 
not imagine  anything  much  pleasanter  than  Con- 
dado,  with  its  tropical  vegetation  luxuriating  all 
around,  while  the  blue  sea  pounds  incessantly  on  a 
vast  white  beach  just  behind  your  house.  New 
Yorkers  are  erecting  a  prodigious  and  splendid  hotel 
out  there  —  about  fifteen  minutes  from  San  Juan 
by  tram  —  which  has  since  been  opened.  The 
grounds  about  it  seemed  rather  bare  at  present,  but 
a  good-sized  tree  will  grow  up  into  being  in  about 
four  years  in  that  glorious  climate  —  and  the  possi- 
bilities are  superb.  Besides,  there's  the  beach  close 
behind,  where  the  long  Atlantic  rollers  are  forever 
roaring  in,  and  where  the  bathing  is  vouched  for  as 
both  delightful  and  free  from  sharks.  I  made  bold 


162  SAILING  SOUTH 

one  day  to  test  the  water  with  a  gingerly  foot  —  and 
found  it  tepid,  as  advertised. 

Speaking  of  hotels,  one  looks  for  really  good  ones 
in  but  few  spots  in  the  island.  Those  in  San  Juan 
and  its  environs  are  the  best  of  all  and  seem  to 
understand  what  the  tourist  regards  as  comfort. 
Once  you  get  outside  you  find  things  more  primitive. 
There  is  a  very  decent  if  ancient  resort  at  Coamo 
Springs,  of  which  more  hereafter;  and  there  are  one 
or  two  very  tolerable  houses  in  Ponce,  which  is  a 
city  even  larger  than  San  Juan,  with  much  better 
shops,  but  less  clean  and  on  the  whole  rather  stupid, 
save  as  the  convenient  center  from  which  to  make 
motor  trips. 

Outside  of  San  Juan,  even  to-day,  you  will  sel- 
dom find  such  a  thing  as  a  mattress.  The  dictum  is 
that  folded  quilts  are  cooler  and  therefore  more 
desirable  —  so  the  hotel-keeper  stocks  up  with  these, 
folds  them  two  or  three  times,  lays  them  on  a  woven- 
wire  spring,  and  invites  you  to  lie  down  and  rest. 
This  is  a  mistake,  and  the  first  night  you  will  say  it  is 
a  fatal  mistake.  The  second  night  you  sleep  like  a 
baby  —  partly  because  you  are  so  worn  out.  But  if 
tourist  travel  is  to  be  seriously  encouraged,  some- 
thing ought  to  be  done  for  the  hotels  of  the  island, 
and  something  also  for  the  steamer  service.  Good, 
old-time  ships  that  are  safe  but  slow  —  such  as  they 


AN  ISLAND  CAPITAL  163 

have  now  —  will  do  very  well  for  seasoned  travelers; 
but  their  capacity  is  small  and  the  Porto  Rico  trip 
ought  to  be  a  more  popular  one  if  only  the  voyage 
could  be  made  in  three  or  four  days  in  a  swift 
modern  liner. 

With  the  lapse  of  days  one  forms  the  habit  of 
going  out  at  evening  toward  the  entrance  of  the  bay, 
where  the  Morro  Castle  is,  there  to  sit  on  the  ram- 
parts and  watch  the  sunset.  Distances  in  this  tiny 
city  are  never  great,  and  once  you  are  outside  the 
main  town  there  is  a  long,  grassy  field  that  is  swept 
by  the  grateful  sea  wind.  You  walk  across  this, 
pausing  now  and  then  to  pick  tiny  but  very  prickly 
burrs  out  of  your  stockings.  Out  on  the  point  you 
come  to  the  old  fort.  You  can  go  in  —  there 's  no 
great  bother  about  that,  although  they  still  go 
through  that  ancient  nonsense  about  taking  away 
your  camera.  Not  even  a  war  can  teach  us  that 
tourist  kodaks  are  almost  as  harmless  in  old  forts  as 
the  lizards  are.  You  might  take  a  snapshot  of  a 
fifteenth- century  bastion  and  give  away  some  vital 
secret  to  the  Huns!  How?  Well,  ask  the  soldier  on 
guard.  Maybe  he  knows!  I  can't  imagine  anything 
of  less  interest  to  Hindenburg  or  Ludendorff  than  a 
kodak  picture  of  the  Morro  —  but  at  any  rate  they  '11 
never  see  one. 

You  are  free  to  go  anywhere  in  the  castle  after 


164  SAILING  SOUTH 

you  have  given  up  your  camera.  It  is  a  well- 
preserved  old  castle.  Tradition  says  that  Admiral 
Sampson  bombarded  this  fortress  back  in  1898;  but 
if  he  did,  he  either  did  n't  succeed  in  hitting  it,  or 
else  the  "gaping  rents"  spoken  of  in  Mr.  Verrall's 
veracious  book  before  referred  to,  have  been  taste- 
fully repaired.  I  saw  nothing  that  looked  like  evi- 
dence of  a  direct  hit  either  at  the  Morro  or  anywhere 
else  in  town.  Maybe  Sampson  fired  blank  charges. 
At  all  events,  he  made  the  island  surrender,  in  con- 
junction with  some  troops  that  landed  over  on  the 
south  side  and  marched  a  little  way  up  the  old 
military  road.  Porto  Rico,  in  the  words  of  Mr. 
Dooley,  capitulated  and  was  welcomed  "into  our 
gloryous  and  well-fed  republic,"  where  it  has  re- 
mained ever  since.  It  is  beginning  to  think  it  would 
like  to  get  out  —  but  I  suspect  that  is  rather  fashion- 
able talk  than  real  desire.  I  can't  imagine  why  Porto 
Rico  should  want  to  get  out.  The  island  pays  no 
taxes  to  Uncle  Sam.  It  has  its  own  local  government 
—  supervised  by  an  imported  American  governor,  to 
be  sure,  and  by  a  handful  of  other  assistants,  but 
not  in  any  oppressive  way.  It  has  nothing  to  worry 
about  —  and  after  so  many  centuries  of  worrying 
and  fighting  to  keep  out  of  other  people's  hands,  I 
should  think  the  present  situation  would  be  a  relief. 
At  least  America  is  n't  Old  Spain. 


THE  MASSIVE  FORTIFICATIONS,  SAX  JUAN 


AN  ISLAND  CAPITAL  165 

So  the  old  Morro  is  still  there,  and  like  the  other 
forts  in  the  cincture  of  ancient  walls  it  is  still  garri- 
soned. There  are  some  modern  cannon  perched  along 
the  ramparts,  but  they  are  carefully  shrouded. 
The  soldiers  when  we  were  there  confessed  that  they 
were  bored  with  the  life,  for  most  of  them  had  been 
there  a  year,  or  a  year  and  a  half.  Their  num- 
bers were  small,  but  you  could  not  complain  that 
they  were  under-officered.  They  themselves  agreed 
that  a  general,  a  colonel,  and  —  until  recently  —  a 
major,  not  to  mention  a  captain  and  numerous 
smaller  fry  was  ample  allowance  for  something  less 
than  a  full  company  of  men. 

One  forms  the  habit  of  visiting  the  forts,  partly 
because  they  are  interesting  and  partly  because 
the  American  soldiers  there  are  so  affable  and  so 
uncommonly  glad  to  see  you.  Besides,  they  are 
such  splendid  fellows  themselves  —  alert,  well-set- 
up, apparently  finding  the  climate  suitable,  although, 
of  course,  they  are  prone  to  curse  the  fate  that  puts 
them  there  and  does  n't  let  them  home. 

After  all,  Uncle  Sam  has  done  a  creditable  work 
in  Porto  Rico,  not  changing  too  many  things,  not 
meddling  too  much,  but  keeping  the  place  in  line. 
I  never  saw  a  handsomer  or  more  appropriate  public 
building  than  the  federal  custom  house  and  post- 
office  down  by  the  Marina  —  a  three-story  stone 


166  SAILING  SOUTH 

structure  with  a  roof  of  red  tile,  quite  in  the  Spanish 
manner  and  a  delight  to  see.  The  new  buildings  of 
the  city  are  nearly  all  handsome  —  but  this  is  the 
finest.  The  local  schoolhouses  would  do  credit  to 
the  finest  capital  city  in  the  States. 

Taking  it  by  and  large  I  was  greatly  pleased  with 
San  Juan  and  I  want  to  go  back.  I  enjoyed  the  city, 
the  people,  the  climate,  the  general  spirit  of  things. 
I  even  enjoyed  a  performance  of  "La  Boheme"  by 
a  touring  company  that  left  something  to  be  de- 
sired, even  though  the  night  was  toasting  hot,  the 
orchestra  abominable,  and  the  scenery  improvised. 
For  you  could  go  out  between  the  acts  and  stroll  in 
the  public  squares  under  a  wondrous  moon  —  and 
shops  purveying  refrescos  of  a  strictly  temperate 
but  cooling  kind  were  close  at  hand. 

Turning  from  the  city  to  a  contemplation  of  its 
environment,  you  will  discover  that  the  island  of 
Porto  Rico,  which  is  less  than  one  hundred  miles 
long  and  not  far  from  forty  miles  wide,  is  almost 
exactly  oblong  in  shape.  It  lies  at  the  elbow  of 
the  Antilles,  at  the  end  of  the  more  considerable 
islands  headed  by  Cuba  and  just  at  the  beginning  of 
that  series  of  lesser  Antilles  which  string  off  toward 
the  South  American  coast.  It  is  a  matter  of  five 
days'  steaming  from  New  York  and  it  is  only 
eighteen  degrees  of  latitude  north  of  the  Equator. 


168  SAILING  SOUTH 

It  has  practically  but  a  single  great  harbor  — 
that  of  San  Juan.  There  are,  it  is  true,  several  other 
ports  of  more  or  less  importance  at  other  points 
around  the  island  at  which  vessels  of  large  size  call 
regularly,  such  as  Ponce  on  the  south  side  and 
Mayaguez  on  the  west;  but  at  these  points  the  ships 
are  forced  to  lie  in  open  roadsteads.  However,  the 
winds  of  this  latitude  being  reasonably  constant  and 
blowing  chiefly  from  the  north  and  east,  the  road- 
steads do  fairly  well  for  all  ordinary  purposes. 

Columbus  discovered  Porto  Rico,  along  with 
other  and  less  notable  islands,  on  (I  believe)  his 
second  voyage  —  although  the  casual  tourist  is 
likely  not  to  be  exact  about  such  matters  and  is 
usually  sure  of  little  save  that  at  least  it  was  not  on 
the  explorer's  first  essay.  He  happened  upon  the 
place  by  accident,  naturally,  and  coasted  along  the 
northern  shore  until  he  found  a  spot  where  there  was 
visible  an  inviting  cascade.  It  was  a  providential 
chance  to  replenish  the  water-casks,  so  he  landed 
and  filled  his  scuttlebutts  with  liquid  acceptable  to 
the  most  exacting  prohibitionist.  There  is  an  active 
dispute  to  this  day  as  to  which  of  two  possible 
sites  should  rightfully  claim  this  honor,  both  hav- 
ing cascades  and  local  names  that  have  to  do  with 
watering-up.  One  is  Aguadilla,  the  other  Aguadas. 
Those  whose  zeal  for  leaving  nothing  unseen  is 


AN  ISLAND  CAPITAL  169 

unquenchable  will  do  well  to  play  it  safe  and  visit 
both. 

Columbus,  finding  the  misguided  natives  calling 
their  country  by  the  heathen  name  of  Borrinqu6n, 
promptly  and  piously  rechristened  it  San  Juan 
Bautista  —  Saint  John  the  Baptist.  This  name  is 
perpetuated  only  in  the  capital  city  which  became  a 
port  of  importance  during  the  governorship  of  Juan 
Ponce  de  Le6n  —  the  same  who  later  sought  in 
Florida  the  fountain  of  perpetual  youth,  as  no  doubt 
you  well  remember.  Curiously  enough  it  was  the 
city  which  was  originally  named  Puerto  Rico  —  the 
Rich  Port  —  but  subsequent  centuries  have  re- 
versed the  early  nomenclature.  The  island  itself 
worried  along,  first  as  Borrinquen  and  then  as 
Caparra,  until  Puerto  Rico  became  its  accepted 
name.  After  the  American  conquest  in  1898  a  brave 
attempt  was  made  to  force  a  universal  acceptance  of 
the  Spanish  spelling  —  but  no  one  would  do  it  and 
the  island  is  officially  Porto  Rico  now. 

Poor  old  Ponce  de  Le6n  bequeathed  his  name  to 
the  second  city  of  the  island.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it 
ought  really  to  be  the  first  city,  because  it  has  the 
largest  population  and  the  widest  territorial  extent 
—  but  it  is  not  the  capital  and  therefore  has  to  be 
content  with  second  honors.  Doubtless  you  were 
taught  by  your  early  preceptresses  to  speak  of 


i;o  SAILING  SOUTH 

"Pontha"  de  Le6n,  but  if  you  inquired  of  a  native 
the  road  to  Pontha  he  would  n't  know  what  you 
meant.  They  call  it  Poncy,  and  leave  it  to  the 
Castilians  of  Old  Spain  to  lithp  thuch  nameth  ath 
thith.  Call  it  Poncy  and  you'll  be  strictly  ortho- 
dox. 

Porto  Rico  is  of  volcanic  origin  and  still  has  an 
occasional  earthquake  to  remind  it  of  its  ancestry. 
They  had  a  perfectly  awful  one  in  1918,  which  shook 
the  whole  west  end  of  the  island,  knocked  off  prac- 
tically the  whole  second  story  of  Mayaguez,  left 
prints  of  devastation  in  Ponce,  and  bothered  San 
Juan  only  a  little.  Several  hundred  people  were 
killed.  But  this  was  the  first  bad  quake  in  many  a 
long  year,  and  for  all  practical  purposes  you  may 
treat  the  island  as  a  safe  place.  Your  chances  of 
being  struck  by  lightning  at  home  are  about  the 
same  as  those  of  being  killed  by  an  earthquake  there, 
or  greater.  Apart  from  the  tremblements  of  the  earth, 
as  the  French  say,  and  an  occasional  hurricane,  the 
island  has  no  drawbacks  at  all.  I  am  told  there  are 
no  poisonous  reptiles,  or  spiders,  and  no  dangerous 
beasts  —  save  the  native  chauffeurs. 

Through  the  middle  of  the  island,  running  east 
and  west  like  a  huge  spine,  is  a  mountain  range. 
The  loftiest  peak,  El  Yunque  —  which  may  mean 
either  the  Anvil  or  the  Giant  —  is  a  little  short  of 


AN  ISLAND  CAPITAL  171 

four  thousand  feet  in  height.  But  the  general  eleva- 
tion of  this  bisecting  ridge  is  not  far  from  three 
thousand  feet  anywhere,  and  it  is  hard  to  find  any 
place  where  roads  may  pass  that  is  any  lower,  save 
close  to  the  coasts.  The  land  along  the  shore  is  low 
and  fertile,  giving  a  chance  to  raise  large  quantities 
of  tobacco,  sugar  cane,  coffee,  pineapples,  bananas, 
oranges,  grapefruit,  and  other  tropical  crops.  A 
railroad,  built  by  the  Americans,  runs  from  San  Juan 
westward  along  the  northern  shore,  around  the  west 
end  and  down  the  south  side  to  Ponce.  Light  rail- 
roads extend  somewhat  beyond  these  points  to  out- 
lying districts,  but  never  far  from  the  water.  The 
greater  part  of  the  interior  is  made  up  of  abrupt 
hills  and  mountains  with  deep  vales  between  —  all 
rather  intensively  cultivated.  In  the  higher  lands 
the  crops  appear  to  be  chiefly  tobacco,  coffee,  and 
sweet  potatoes,  with  bananas  for  variety. 

Just  at  present  shipping  conditions  are  not  of  the 
best,  owing  to  the  war.  Wherefore  perfectly  delicious 
oranges  and  grapefruit  can  be  had  by  the  carload  for 
little  more  than  a  song,  and  despairing  planters 
affirm  that  if  something  does  n't  happen  pretty  soon 
they'll  be  ruined.  After  you  have  purchased  a 
dozen  solid-gold  oranges  at  your  corner  fruitstand 
at  home,  just  think  that  in  Porto  Rico  you  could 
pick  up  one  hundred  oranges  for  a  quarter  almost 


172  SAILING  SOUTH 

anywhere  —  and  the  most  delicious  grapefruit  you 
ever  tasted  in  your  life  for  very  little  more! 

In  the  four  centuries  of  Spanish  misrule  there  was 
built  one  amazingly  beautiful  highroad  —  the  mili- 
tary road  from  San  Juan  to  Ponce,  which  runs  in 
long,  sinuous  curves  to  the  top  of  the  mountains  and 
down  the  other  side.  It's  a  grand  road  still.  To  this 
the  Americans  have  since  added  about  two  hundred 
miles  of  macadam  connecting  the  various  points  both 
coastwise  and  inland,  so  that  at  present  there  is  no 
more  delightful  land  for  motoring  anywhere  under 
the  sun.  I  have  been  in  numerous  spots  on  earth 
which  advertised  alluringly  to  be  "the  paradise  of 
motorists,"  but  none  that  did  it  more  justifiably 
than  Porto  Rico.  Save  where  the  light  railways  that 
serve  as  supplemental  feeders  penetrate,  all  traffic 
with  the  interior  proceeds  by  motor  trucks.  The 
roads  are  constantly  overseen  by  sections,  and  prison 
labor  helps  to  keep  them  in  repair. 

Down  in  the  flat  lands  near  the  sea,  set  in  the 
midst  of  acres  upon  acres  of  sugar  cane,  are  the 
centrales  as  they  are  called  —  the  various  great  sugar 
mills,  of  which  more  hereafter.  There  is  a  law  which 
prevents  these  mills  from  owning  (directly)  more 
than  a  meager  amount  of  cane  plantation;  but  by 
some  intricate  device  they  manage  usually  to  have  a 
controlling  voice  over  many  thousands  of  acres  in 


AN  ISLAND  CAPITAL  173 

their  vicinity.  They  are  so  isolated,  and  they  use 
so  much  of  their  own  refuse  for  fuel  that  they  are 
very  far  from  being  blots  on  a  landscape  where  every 
prospect  pleases  and  where  man  is  only  very  moder- 
ately vile. 

Nearly  every  writer  on  Porto  Rico  mentions  the 
fact  that  the  primeval  vegetation  of  the  mountains 
has  been  largely  cut  down,  leaving  denuded  hill- 
sides. That  is  to  a  great  extent  true.  But  the  trop- 
ical growth  of  trees  is  very  rapid,  and  the  task  of 
reforesting  the  island,  if  it  were  ever  seriously  at- 
tempted, would  be  easy.  As  it  is,  though  the  hills 
are  too  bare,  the  roads  are  abundantly  shaded  by 
palms  and  by  the  flamboyant  poincianas,  by  ilex, 
bamboo,  banana,  and  numerous  other  trees  the 
names  of  which  I  never  was  able  to  discover. 

One  tree  is  to  me  very  much  like  another  —  and  it 
is  always  Katrina  who  is  the  botanist  of  our  voyages. 
I  have  a  hazy  recollection  of  seeing  a  sea  of  green 
from  our  flying  motor  —  a  general  view  of  pleasant 
places.  It  is  Katrina  who  notes  the  individual  fea- 
tures as  we  fly  along  and  mentions  them  with  excla- 
mations of  delight.  I  am  told  to  observe  and  to  ad- 
mire amaryllis,  orchids,  wandering- jew,  and  a  variety 
of  beauties  that  I  never  see  at  all.  I  generally  murmur, 
"Yes,  yes!  Are  n't  they  gorgeous!"  —  that's  easier 
than  admitting  that  I  have  missed  the  spectacle  alto- 


174  SAILING  SOUTH 

gether.  It's  less  humiliating.  I  am  constantly  be- 
sought to  ask  the  native  driver  —  whose  language  is 
not  mine  and  whose  attention  is  properly  riveted  to 
the  road  —  what  sort  of  tree  that  is  which  we  are 
just  approaching.  So  I  seize  Antonio,  or  Arturo,  by 
the  sleeve  with  one  hand  and  point  to  the  tree  with 
the  other:  "Hey,  Arturo/  Que  classe  de  arbol?" 

Arturo  looks  at  it  with  a  lack-luster  eye  and 
finally  announces,  "  Yo  no  se!"  He  does  n't  know. 
I  relay  this  news  to  the  tonneau  —  but  by  this  time 
there's  another  tree  to  look  at,  or  some  fields  of 
mariposa  lilies,  or  some  new  brand  of  "heathen" 
fruit.  Arturo  is  rather  better  on  fruits  than  on  trees 
and  flowers  —  but  his  names  for  these  gifts  of  God 
are  usually  couched  in  a  form  unfamiliar  to  me  and 
are  impossible  of  translation.  So  I  utter  an  unin- 
telligible jumble  of  sounds  supposed  to  sound  like 
what  he  said,  and  receive  in  return  the  gibes  of  that 
ungrateful  but  inquiring  back  seat.  After  long 
experience  I  have  come  to  know  the  "flamboyant" 
tree  when  I  see  it,  because  it  is  one  glorious  mass  of 
red.  Palms,  any  of  us  can  tell  at  sight  —  although 
we  may  not  be  sure  as  to  the  varieties  thereof. 
Bananas  are  never  to  be  mistaken  for  fig-trees,  nor 
fig-trees  for  bamboos.  I  hope  the  thing  we  have 
voted  to  call  a  mango  was  really  a  mango! 

You  must  n't  blame  me.  When  I  motor  I  watch 


AN  ISLAND  CAPITAL  175 

the  road.  If  it  is  a  road  which  winds  up  and  down 
mountains,  skirting  precipices  and  leaping  ravines 
on  narrow  bridges,  I  watch  it  with  the  devotion  of 
a  mother  at  the  bedside  of  her  first-born.  I  pray 
Arturo  to  slow  down,  being  well  aware  that  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  centrifugal  force  —  a  thing  for 
which  most  Porto  Rican  drivers  have  a  man's  con- 
tempt —  and  I  have  no  wish  to  be  skidded  into 
eternity  before  my  time.  It  is  true,  as  Mrs.  Mogul 
reminds  me  from  the  tonneau,  that  we  have  n't  but 
one  chance  to  die;  but  I  want  to  postpone  that 
chance,  seeing  it  is  all  I  am  allowed,  and  not  use  it 
up  too  soon.  You  can't  expect  me,  sitting  there  on 
the  bridge  of  the  ship,  to  take  a  mere  first-class 
passenger's  interest  in  the  beauties  of  opulent  na- 
ture. In  a  rugged  country  like  Porto  Rico  there  is 
usually  a  view  ahead  for  about  fifty  yards,  to  a 
point  where  the  road  loops  around  the  next  shoulder 
of  the  mountain.  Very  likely  there's  a  motor  truck 
coming  down  —  yes,  by  George,  there  is!  "Hey, 
Arturo!  Carro  que  viene!"  The  nonchalant  Arturo 
swings  out  of  one  danger  into  another  —  wheels 
skimming  along  the  ditch  —  said  ditch  being  two 
hundred  feet  deep  by  actual  count.  The  bullock- 
carts  that  I  have  missed  by  a  hair,  the  horses  that 
have  saved  themselves  from  being  slain  by  making 
agile  leaps  into  the  coppice  on  the  roadside,  the 


i;6  SAILING  SOUTH 

insouciant  peasants  who  have  all  but  been  ushered 
untimely  into  Behind  the  Beyond  because  Arturo 
was  entranced  by  the  song  of  a  bird  while  doing  a 
modest  forty  per  hour  on  the  grade,  must  number 
thousands.  However,  I'm  still  safe  and  sound.  I 
have  lived  to  tell  my  tale.  And  now  I  intend  to 
take  up  in  more  consecutive  form  the  narrative  of 
a  motor  jaunt  through  Porto  Rico,  which  started 
personally  conducted  by  Jesus  Pena,  proceeded 
under  the  tutelage  of  Antonio  and  Arturo,  and  ended 
in  the  voluptuous  arms  of  Augustino  Rodriguez. 


CHAPTER  XII 
MOTORING  IN  PORTO  RICO 

I  WILL  at  the  outset  say  that  if  you  like  touring, 
appreciate  glorious  scenery  most  when  seen  from 
a  splendid  road,  and  are  "sport"  enough  to  put  up 
with  what,  after  all,  are  very  decent  and  clean, 
though  admittedly  not  first-grade,  hotels,  you  will 
find  Porto  Rico  eminently  satisfactory.  It  is  a 
land  where  there  falls  never  any  snow.  Frost  is  un- 
known. The  modest  mountains,  though  devoid  of 
Alpine  glaciers  and  Himalayan  summits,  are  rugged 
and  imposing.  And  it  has  what  every  "paradise" 
should  have  —  luxuriant  greenery,  lush  dells  and 
distant  vistas  of  the  open  sea. 

Hiring  a  motor  in  San  Juan  de  Porto  Rico  ought 
not  to  be  much  more  difficult  than  buying  a  two- 
quart  pail  of  blueberries  in  Mt.  Desert  in  their 
season  —  and  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  is  n't.  One  has 
only  to  make  due  allowances  for  the  vagaries  of  the 
Spanish  temperament.  The  real  difficulty  arises 
when  you  try  to  hire  two  motors. 

During  your  peregrinations  through  the  town  on 
the  first  days  of  your  arrival,  the  chief  impression 


178  SAILING  SOUTH 

you  receive  is  that  not  only  has  every  native  some 
sort  of  a  car,  but  also  that  each  is  anxious  to  rent 
the  same  for  voyages  of  discovery.  "Gentleman, 
you  want  hire  car  for  week  trip?"  You  cannot  walk 
around  the  tiny  plaza  of  San  Juan  without  hearing 
that  formula  repeated  about  a  score  of  times. 

The  trouble  with  our  caravan  was  that  one  car 
would  n't  be  enough.  In  addition  to  Katrina  and 
myself  there  was  the  Mogul  with  his  spouse  —  and 
in  addition  to  them,  the  Millers  of  Dee.  The  very 
least  we  could  do  with  was  two  automobiles  —  and 
the  two  must  have  ample  baggage  space  besides. 
Hence  we  had  made  no  haste;  but  as  we  wandered 
about  the  city  we  gave  the  multitude  of  anxious 
bidders  what  I  have  heard  denominated  the  once- 
over. The  Mogul  had  read  somewhere  that  you 
must  be  especially  careful  not  to  hire  a  native 
driver  because  the  native  drivers  are  prone  both  to 
speed  mania  and  to  its  direct  opposite  —  to  wit, 
sleeping-sickness,  or  the  hookworm  disease.  There 
is  no  middle  ground.  Either  the  Porto  Rican 
motorist  must  be  taking  the  hairpin  turns  of  the 
mountain  highways  on  two  wheels,  or  else  he  must 
be  in  repose.  Such  was  the  dictum  of  some  anxious 
adviser  —  and  we  believed  it.  We  could  have  no 
native  chauffeurs  in  ours. 

Some  one  also  happened  to  have  letters  to  a  local 


MOTORING  IN  PORTO  RICO         179 

banker,  and  the  banker  further  disquieted  us  by 
the  news  that  there  were  n't  any  but  native  drivers. 
He  advised  hiring  the  most  careful  ones  he  could 
discover  for  us  —  and  intimated  that  his  bank  stood 
ready  to  assume  the  custody  of  last  wills  and  testa- 
ments. The  matter  was  referred  to  him  with  full 
powers. 

That  evening  there  appeared  unto  us  Antonio. 
His  last  name  I  have  never  learned.  He  was  a  lean 
and  hungry  individual,  with  a  habit  of  extending 
both  arms  in  an  attitude  betokening  utter  despair 
and  an  absolute  surrender  to  the  fell  clutch  of  cir- 
cumstance. He  was  able  to  speak  about  as  little 
English  as  I  could  speak  of  Spanish,  with  the  result 
that  there  was  between  us  a  great  gulf  fixed  —  a 
sort  of  linguistic  chasm  to  be  spanned  only  by  the 
language  of  signs.  But  we  managed  to  elicit  from 
him  that  he  was  lord  over  a  five-year-old  Buick; 
that  he  was  willing  to  engage  for  a  week's  trip 
around  the  island;  that  he  thought  he  could  un- 
earth another  car  of  about  the  same  vintage  for  the 
rest  of  the  party ;  and  that  he  would  bring  the  other 
man  around.  Later  appeared  the  other  man  — 
destined  to  be  a  mere  episode  in  our  earthly  pil- 
grimage, but  impressive.  He  was  moustachioed  in 
the  fiercest  Spanish  style,  and  one  looked  to  hear 
from  his  lips  such  words  as  "Pieces  of  Eight!"  He 


i8o  SAILING  SOUTH 

too  conveyed  the  idea  that  on  Tuesday  he  would  be 
found  waiting  at  the  door. 

Now  I  ought  to  have  been  wise,  for  I  had  seen 
several  hopeful  excursionists  starting  out  on  this 
same  expedition  and  I  had  learned  to  see  them  wait. 
But  one  always  expects  to  be  different  in  fate  from 
others;  and  therefore  when  Tuesday  came  with  no 
waiting  motors  we  experienced  a  pained  surprise. 
Finally  Antonio  drove  up  only  an  hour  behind 
time,  which  was  doing  fairly  well  —  but  he  was 
in  the  depths  of  despair.  His  piratical  friend  had, 
it  appeared,  shamelessly  accepted  another  job.  It 
was  Carnival  time.  Antonio  doubted  that  there  was 
another  car  in  San  Juan  • —  that  city  but  yesterday 
so  packed  with  cars! 

In  vain  did  the  Mogul  assume  the  portentous 
attitude  of  the  late  Dr.  Munyon  and  read  to  An- 
tonio an  unintelligible  version  of  the  riot  act. 
Antonio  merely  thrust  his  hands  forth  in  his  cus- 
tomary gesture  of  abject  helplessness.  However, 
he  would  make  search.  The  hotel  also  instigated  a 
telephonic  inquiry.  Hopeful  boys,  with  backsheesh 
in  view,  scurried  busily  around  the  neighborhood. 
As  a  result  there  finally  appeared  a  somewhat  di- 
lapidated Dodge,  a  hopeful  but  antiquated  Ford, 
and  a  sort  of  hermaphrodite  Hudson  painted  up  to 
look  quite  new,  but  boasting  two  different  styles  of 


MOTORING  IN  PORTO  RICO         181 

hub.  Partisans  of  each  applicant  cheerfully  libeled 
all  the  others  as  "no  good." 

It  was  the  new  paint  on  the  Hudson  that  won  — 
for  a  while.  It  seemed  the  only  thing  to  do.  And  we 
were  just  making  a  fresh  bargain  with  its  master 
when  all  at  once  there  descended,  apparently 
straight  from  heaven,  one  Arturo,  late  a  soldier  of 
the  A.E.F.,  still  in  uniform,  and  mendaciously  pro- 
fessing to  speak  the  English  language.  A  gladsome 
chorus  of  curbstone  admirers  acclaimed  him  supe- 
rior to  all  the  other  rivals.  Wherefore  we  changed 
apologetically  to  Arturo —  fruitfully  surnamed  Can- 
tellupi.  The  Mogul  covertly  assuaged  the  disap- 
pointed and  discarded  applicant  with  a  long  green 
bill.  It  developed  that  his  name  was  Jesus  Pena. 

The  caravan  got  away  at  last  to  a  reasonably 
good  start.  It  was  a  lowering  day,  but  that  made  it 
agreeably  cool. 

\  There  is  only  one  road  out  of  San  Juan  —  which 
city  is  situated  on  a  sort  of  island  that  amounts  to  a 
peninsula.  It  is  naturally  a  frequented  thorough- 
fare, tenanted  by  a  constant  stream  of  traffic  of 
every  style.  In  addition  to  the  multitude  of  motors 
there  are  flying  jitneys,  trams,  laboring  bullock- 
carts,  pedestrians  innumerable.  It  is  the  beginning 
of  the  ancient  Spanish  highway  to  Ponce  —  the 
centuries-old  military  road.  I  judge  that  if  there  are 


182  SAILING  SOUTH 

speed  regulations  they  are  more  honored  in  the 
breach  than  the  observance. 

We  swung  out  of  the  city,  through  the  suburban 
villages  of  Santurce  and  Rio  Piedras  (which  latter 
we  may  translate  freely  Stony  Brook),  and  through 
a  rolling  country  fresh  and  sweet  from  recent 
showers  and  green  with  a  riotous  tropical  verdure. 
Dull  care  was  banished.  From  the  rear  seat  I 
trolled  a  merry  catch.  The  road  unrolled  like  a 
smooth  gray  ribbon,  undulating  over  gentle  hills 
and  winding  through  fields  of  orange,  tobacco,  and 
cane.  Ahead  towered  the  rugged  forms  of  the  blue 
mountains.  The  Mogul,  accustomed  to  high  speeds, 
sat  unmoved  beside  Arturo  as  the  latter  opened  up 
his  throttle  and  began  to  hit  up  a  brisk  forty-five 
an  hour.  A  hasty  glance  behind  showed  me  that  we 
had  left  Antonio  and  our  other  car  as  if  nailed  to  the 
post.  Antony  was  not  in  sight.  No  one  knew 
where  he  was  —  but  doubtless  he  would  catch  us 
somewhere.  Meantime  we  shot  like  an  arrow  into 
the  interior  of  Porto  Rico,  which  speedily  revealed 
itself  as  a  rugged  isle,  abundantly  sown  with  way- 
side public  schools. 

I  cannot  now  recall  how  many  schoolhouses 
there  are  in  the  island,  but  I  should  say  I  must 
have  seen  upwards  of  two  hundred  first  and  last, 
scattered  over  hill  and  dale,  never  very  large,  but 


MOTORING  IN  PORTO  RICO         183 

each  accommodating  some  tiny  and  often  undis- 
coverable  rural  hamlet.  Every  mile  or  two  there 
would  appear  on  the  roadside  a  sign,  "Precaution! 
Escuela  Publica!"  —  the  Spanish  way  of  telling 
motorists  to  look  out  for  school-children.  These 
diminutive  huts  usually  had  a  decent  American 
flag  duly  raised  on  an  improvised  staff  —  and 
within  always  a  dozen  or  two  of  youngsters  being 
taught  something.  We  flashed  by  them,  onward 
and  ever  upward,  seeking  the  tobacco  country  of 
Caguas  and  Cayey.  Steep  and  denuded  hillsides 
stole  upon  us  ere  we  were  aware  —  cultivated  to 
their  tops  as  we  later  discovered.  Great  white 
patches  on  the  remote  hills  betokened  fields  of  to- 
bacco sheltered  under  cloth,  but  looking  from  a 
distance  as  if  some  gigantic  fairy  had  dropped  her 
handkerchief.  You  can  see  the  same  thing  on  a 
smaller  scale  in  the  Connecticut  Valley  —  huge 
areas  of  cheesecloth,  carried  aloft  on  the  top  of 
bean-poles,  so  that  a  man  may  walk  erect  under 
this  vast  tent  and  cultivate  the  weed  which  cheers 
and  soothes. 

Caguas  and  Cayey  are  separated  by  a  sort  of 
subsidiary  mountain  range,  which  the  road  sur- 
mounts by  long,  upward  curves.  It  seems  a  con- 
siderable climb  to  the  summit  —  but  when  you  get 
there,  behold  you  must  descend  again  to  a  fresh 


184  SAILING  SOUTH 

inland  valley,  and  climb  in  turn  out  of  that  one  to 
a  mountain  height  greater  still.  I  always  dislike 
that  feature  of  mountain  travel.  It  seems  such  a 
pity,  after  you  have  labored  up  to  an  altitude  of 
twenty-five  hundred  feet,  to  go  away,  'way  down 
again  and  then  climb  another  three  thousand.  But 
that's  what  you  always  have  to  do.  Fortunately 
the  Spaniards  who  had  engineered  this  road  had  a 
good  eye  for  grades  and  made  them  easy  —  at  the 
expense  of  vastly  increased  distances.  The  views,  of 
course,  were  superb.  The  clouds  kindly  held  off  the 
mountain-tops,  and  chance  patches  of  sunlight  il- 
lumined the  vast  green  depths  below.  Tobacco  gave 
way  to  coffee  —  until  I  began  to  think  of  O.  Henry's 
description  of  "this  fruitstand  and  grocery-store  of 
a  country." 

It  developed  that  our  Arturo  had  temperament. 
He  was  a  graceful  creature  with  soulful  eyes  — 
somewhat  bleary  if  the  truth  be  told  —  the  hands 
of  a  gentleman,  whereof  he  was  immensely  proud, 
and  a  lithe  body  which  he  draped  over  his  wheel 
in  attitudes  suggestive  of  Mercury,  new-'lighted  on 
a  heaven-kissing  hill.  Conversation  with  him  soon 
revealed  the  fact  that  his  boasted  English  was  de- 
plorably limited.  Longer  acquaintance  indicated 
that  he  was  not  inclined  to  soil  those  shapely  and 
well-manicured  hands  by  tinkering  the  inward 


MOTORING  IN  PORTO  RICO         185 

parts  of  his  machine.  A  year  in  the  army  had  taught 
him  much  —  among  other  things  the  gentle  art  of 
ordering  other  people  to  do  the  distasteful  tasks.  I 
noticed  in  the  course  of  a  few  days  that  if  we  had 
tire  trouble  it  was  the  perspiring  Antonio  who  did 
the  heavy  work.  But  if  it  were  a  case  of  gathering 
wayside  flowers,  Arturo  was  there  with  the  willing- 
ness to  serve.  His  roving  eye  lighted  with  apprecia- 
tion at  the  manifold  beauties  of  nature.  He  es- 
teemed it  a  privilege  to  swarm  gracefully  to  the 
tops  of  wayside  trees  to  gather  queer  fruits  —  the 
names  of  which  he  usually  did  n't  know,  and  all 
of  which  proved  to  be  unripe.  He  would  become 
utterly  oblivious  of  all  else  at  the  song  of  a  bird. 
The  lure  of  a  sudden  little  river  —  one  is  always 
fording  shallow  rivers  in  Porto  Rico  • —  was  not  to 
be  resisted.  He  must  halt  and  wash  those  shapely 
hands! 

I  could  hear  the  Mogul  talking  learnedly  to  him 
from  his  perch  on  the  front  seat  —  Arturo  cocking 
an  attentive  ear  and  pretending  politely  to  under- 
stand. In  the  meantime  Katrina  and  Mrs.  Mogul 
exclaimed  over  the  opulence  of  the  verdure,  noting 
flowers  and  shrubs  as  we  flew  by,  and  actually  giv- 
ing them  names.  As  for  me,  I  hung  on  and  formu- 
lated prayers  for  such  as  are  in  peril  on  the  high- 
road. We  descended  to  the  depths  of  still  another 


186  SAILING  SOUTH 

valley  and  swung  up  the  following  ascent,  in  and 
out  the  winding  curves,  round  and  about  mountain 
spurs  enclosing  cavernous  ravines,  climbing,  climb- 
ing, climbing  —  until  at  last  we  reached  the  ulti- 
mate crest  and  backbone  of  the  island  and  looked 
down  upon  the  Caribbean  from  the  aerie  prettily 
named  Aibonito. 

From  here  the  road  dropped  as  abruptly  as  it 
had  risen  —  still  in  graceful  curves,  leaping  deep 
gulches  on  ancient  stone  bridges,  and  affording 
Arturo  a  holy  joy  which  manifested  itself  in  rim- 
ming the  outside  edge  of  unparapeted  corners. 
Even  Katrina's  joyous  comments  on  the  wayside 
flora  now  became  subdued  and  fragmentary  —  and 
once  or  twice  an  involuntary  squeak  from  Mrs. 
Mogul  indicated  that  she,  too,  appreciated  the  dire 
possibility  of  a  lurch  which  might  land  us  all  un- 
timely in  Charon's  skiff.  However,  none  came.  We 
got  safely  to  the  foot  of  the  grade,  turned  abruptly 
into  a  branch  road,  squattered  at  speed  across  a 
stony  little  river,  and  swarmed  up  the  abrupt  grade 
beyond.  The  first  lap  of  our  ride  was  over.  We 
whirled  with  a  joyous  hoot  into  Coamo  Springs  — 
late,  indeed,  but  not  too  late  for  lunch. 

One  owes  Coamo  Springs  more  than  a  word.  It  is 
a  resort  as  old  as  the  Spanish  occupation,  and  once 
on  a  time  it  was  a  sort  of  rural  Monte  Carlo.  At 


MOTORING  IN  PORTO  RICO         187 

present  it  is  a  sedate  place  where  at  all  seasons  of 
the  year  tourists  and  natives  go  for  hot  sulphur 
baths.  There  is  no  other  hot  spring  in  the  island, 
despite  its  volcanic  origin. 

There  is  a  queer  old  hotel  there  —  a  one-story 
affair  with  a  broad  central  corridor  and  wide  ve- 
randas on  each  side.  All  the  rooms  are  open  at 
both  ends  —  one  end  on  the  veranda,  the  other  on 
the  central  corridor.  The  door  toward  the  veranda 
is  a  slat  affair.  The  one  on  the  corridor  is  a  con- 
traption of  two  leaves,  reaching  neither  to  the  bot- 
tom nor  the  top  —  such  as  in  earlier  days  you  may 
have  seen  at  the  entrance  of  New  York  saloons. 
The  result  is  that  one  enjoys  about  the  same  pri- 
vacy as  a  goldfish.  One  is  cool  —  but  semi-public. 
The  night  has  a  thousand  snores.  And  as  every 
door,  after  it  grows  dark,  looks  exactly  like  every 
other  door,  it  is  wise  to  be  careful  about  enter- 
ing what  you  imagine  to  be  your  own  room,  lest 
you  emulate  Mr.  Pickwick  at  Ipswich.  I  grew  ac- 
customed to  hearing  cautious  gentlemen  sounding 
their  way  along,  bleating  "Emma,  Emma!"  in  a 
sort  of  inquiring  voice,  until  identity  had  been  es- 
tablished. 

Down  and  ever  downward  from  the  hotel  a  cov- 
ered way  leads  to  the  bathing  place  —  a  glorious 
spot  where  deep  cells  are  provided,  opening  off  a 


188  SAILING  SOUTH 

dim  central  hall  embowered  in  trees.  In  each  cell  is 
a  Roman  bath  —  a  sunken  pool,  into  which  a  neat- 
handed  attendant  draws  copious  supplies  of  water 
for  your  ablutions.  She  is  polite  enough  to  ask 
whether  you  prefer  hot  or  cold  —  but  invariably 
turns  on  the  spout  you  don't  ask  for.  The  fact  is, 
that  the  cold  water  is  only  a  few  degrees  less  hot 
than  the  other.  And  when  she  has  withdrawn,  you 
bolt  your  door,  descend  into  a  capacious  tank,  and 
luxuriate  in  such  comfort  as  you  probably  never 
knew  before.  For  such  as  like  it,  there  are  dual 
tanks  so  that  two  may  bathe  at  once.  And  for  such 
as  can  endure  it  there  is  sulphur  water  to  drink.  It 
must  be  regarded  as  good  for  one  —  otherwise  no 
one  would  ever  do  it.  It  has  that  taste  of  warm 
flatirons  mentioned  by  Mr.  Weller. 

In  the  evening  you  sit  on  the  lawn  out  under  a 
sky  in  which  the  stars  blaze  with  an  unwonted 
splendor.  The  hills  which  shut  in  the  vale  of  Coamo 
rise  half  guessed  in  the  night  —  until  chance  fires 
in  the  withered  refuse  of  the  cane-fields  suddenly 
bring  them  out  in  startling  distinctness.  Those 
familiar  with  the  spangled  heavens  point  out  new 
and  unfamiliar  southern  constellations.  The  wind 
is  asleep.  You  would  say  it  was  August,  though  in 
fact  it  is  early  March.  You  smoke  the  native  cigar  — 
which  is  cheap  but  good. 


MOTORING  IN  PORTO  RICO         189 

Thus  we  sat,  and  one  by  one  sleepy  neighbors 
withdrew  from  the  starlit  circle  to  go  questing  their 
rooms,  with  much  tentative  "Emma,  Emma,"  and 
"Lucy,  Lucy,"  in  the  dusky  corridors  of  the  hotel. 


i 


CHAPTER  XIII 
SUGAR 

T  was  while  we  were  still  at  Coamo  Springs  that 
I  had  the  unexpected  thrill  of  being  "paged." 
All  the  world  was  sitting  on  the  lawn  enjoying  the 
tropic  night  —  a  night  so  warm  and  so  still  that  it 
seemed  impossible  it  could  be  winter  —  a  night  re- 
plete with  stars  so  brilliant  that  it  hardly  seemed 
they  could  be  stars.  Now  and  again  a  red  glow 
would  suffuse  the  heavens  —  doubtless  from  fires 
in  the  plantation  refuse,  but  glibly  described  by 
a  neighboring  guest  to  a  credulous  lady  as  "the 
glare  of  the  Antilles."  It  was  then  that  I  heard 
myself  being  "paged." 

Such  an  experience  always  gives  me  thrills  and  I 
imagine  it  does  so  to  nearly  every  one  but  the  most 
hardened.  One  feels  rather  set  up,  rather  con- 
spicuous, and  at  the  same  time  alarmed.  In  my 
own  case  a  sort  of  nameless  terror  usually  overlays 
everything  else  —  but  especially  was  it  so  to  hear 
myself  besought  by  a  native  bell-boy  in  this  re- 
mote corner  of  the  world  where  no  one  could  by 
any  chance  know  that  I  was.  Therefore  some  un- 
precedented calamity  must  have  occurred,  moving 


SUGAR  191 

detective  agencies  to  seek  me  out !  It  was  some  one 
on  the  telephone,  they  said. 

It  turned  out  that  there  was  no  cause  for  alarm. 
A  pleasant  voice  said  that  its  owner  was  "Carter 
'87"  —  his  name  may  as  well  be  Carter;  that  he 
had  seen  our  names  in  the  local  paper  as  late  ar- 
rivals in  the  district;  and  that  he  hoped  we  could 
come  and  take  lunch  with  him  on  the  morrow  at 
the  sugar  central  about  fifteen  miles  away,  over 
which  he  was  lord  and  master. 

Now  a  central  is  the  Porto  Rican  way  of  naming 
a  sugar  mill,  and  I  had  sorely  wanted  to  see  a  sugar 
mill.  I  had  been  told  by  all  means  to  do  it  if  I  got 
the  chance.  And  here  was  Carter,  whom  I  remem- 
bered well,  inviting  me  to  inspect  the  second  largest 
one  in  the  island  —  maybe  in  the  world.  I  wanted 
to  —  but  prudence  warned  me  to  inform  Carter 
that,  like  Wordsworth's  idiotic  little  girl,  we  were 
seven.  I  could  n't  very  well  leave  the  Mogul  and 
the  Millers  of  Dee.  It  seemed  to  me,  over  a  rather 
imperfect  telephone  line,  that  Carter  gasped  a  little 
at  this  news  —  but  he  said  with  creditable  promp- 
titude that  I  must  bring  them  all.  The  deal  went 
through  for  one  o'clock  next  day.  We  then  to  bed, 
as  Pepys  would  put  it,  with  great  content. 

By  dint  of  naming  a  fairly  early  hour,  we  man- 
aged to  get  the  reposeful  Antonio  and  the  tempera- 


192  SAILING  SOUTH 

mental  Arturo  into  commission  with  the  motors  at 
nine-thirty.  It  became  evident  that  each  was  sailing 
unfamiliar  seas.  Chauffeurs  of  San  Juan,  they  had 
mendaciously  caused  it  to  be  assumed  that  the  en- 
tire highway  system  of  the  island  was  to  them  an 
open  book.  In  fact  I  suspect  neither  of  them  had 
ever  done  any  great  amount  of  driving,  and  it  was 
sure  that  they  had  never  gone  from  Coamo  to  the 
southeast  along  the  shore.  There  is,  however,  this 
merit  about  Porto  Rico  —  you  can't  very  well  get 
lost.  There's  one  main  road  to  where  you  wish  to 
go,  and  you  cannot  possibly  lose  it.  The  trouble  all 
comes  when  you  have  to  drive  for  five  or  six  miles 
down  a  plantation  track  looking  for  the  main 
arteries  of  travel. 

However,  by  dint  of  asking  questions  and  follow- 
ing the  most  promising  trails  we  did  manage  even- 
tually to  arrive  at  the  coast  of  the  Caribbean.  There 
were  one  or  two  shallow  rivers  to  ford  —  but  the 
motors  of  Porto  Rico  are  used  to  that.  The  only 
thing  you  must  n't  do  is  stop  in  midstream,  be- 
cause if  you  do  the  weight  of  the  car  sends  you  hub 
deep.  You  poise  on  the  bank,  make  all  snug,  set 
your  gears  in  the  low  speed  —  and  plough  through, 
very  much  like  the  Leviathan  in  a  sea-way. 

A  very  decent  white  road  led  eastward  along  the 
shore.  It  was  dusty,  the  rain  not  being  a  frequent 


SUGAR  193 

visitor  to  this  side  of  the  island.  The  surrounding 
country  was  rather  flat  and,  for  a  tropical  scene, 
stupid.  Nothing  but  acres  upon  acres  of  cane  —  I 
forget  how  many  hundred  thousand.  But  there 
were  "heathen"  fruit-trees  on  the  wayside  to  be 
exclaimed  at  and  identified  —  always  a  laborious 
process.  There  were  occasional  funerals  to  be 
saluted  with  much  doffing  of  the  hat.  I  think  we 
never  went  to  ride  that  we  did  n't  pass  at  least  two 
funerals.  The  casket  was  invariably  borne  on  the 
shoulders  of  a  stalwart  company,  and  sometimes 
there  were  a  few  mourners,  but  not  always.  The 
Spaniard  thinks  he  has  done  his  duty  by  the  de- 
parted when  prayers  have  been  said  at  home.  The 
mere  laying  away  of  the  corpse  is  n't  so  much  of  a 
ceremony.  One  is  content  to  put  on  deep  mourning, 
deny  one's  self  all  social  joys  for  a  space,  and  hire  a 
vast  black-bordered  space  in  the  local  newspaper 
for  a  memorial  notice  now  and  then. 

By  the  appointed  time  we  whirled  up  to  the 
rendezvous  somewhat  the  worse  for  dust,  but  other- 
wise feeling  first-rate.  The  central  lay  well  to  the 
side  from  the  highroad,  and  turned  out  to  be  a  very 
considerable  village.  It  sat  on  a  tiny  eminence 
overlooking  the  sea;  and  in  a  broad  lagoon,  pro- 
tected by  a  long  outlying  reef,  there  lay  a  tramp 
steamer  loading  raw  sugar  for  Boston.  The  most 


194  SAILING  SOUTH 

prominent  thing  in  sight  was  naturally  the  mill  — 
a  towering  structure  of  corrugated  iron  dominated 
by  a  lofty  stack,  from  the  top  of  which  a  wisp 
of  smoke  trailed  briskly  away  in  the  teeth  of  the 
breeze. 

A  tiny  railroad  branched  off  over  the  fields,  and 
on  it  little  trains  of  cars  brought  in  loads  of  cane. 
I  have  always  wanted  a  railroad  like  that  to  play 
with. 

All  about  lay  the  needful  buildings  of  the  in- 
dustry which  had  created  them  —  a  vast  store- 
house, warehouses  for  the  finished  product,  homes 
for  the  help,  schools  for  their  children,  a  trim  post- 
office,  and  on  a  hill  o'erlooking  all  the  neighbor- 
hood, Carter's  house.  I  was  glad  I  came.  It  looked 
very  like  a  New  England  house,  and  the  bath- 
rooms looked  like  New  England  bathrooms.  Every 
window  stood  open  to  the  breeze,  and  it  was  alto- 
gether like  a  bland  June  day  at  home. 

I  need  n't  dwell  on  the  lunch.  Carter  had  appar- 
ently no  difficulty  in  dealing  with  the  seven  —  in 
fact  he  said  that  was  a  modest  number,  for  occa- 
sional visitors  had  sometimes  brought  as  many  as 
twenty  hungry  people  to  see  the  sugar  mill.  The 
dispensation  of  lordly  hospitality  was  one  of  his 
duties  as  resident  manager.  Meanwhile  the  main 
thing  was  to  see  sugar  made. 


SUGAR  195 

In  a  general  way  I  suppose  we  all  know  that  sugar 
is  crystallized  somehow  out  of  the  juice  of  the  sugar 
cane.  The  actual  process  is  more  of  a  mystery. 
Every  one  who  has  traveled  much  in  the  Far  South 
has  seen  fields  of  the  cane  —  looking  rather  like  ex- 
aggerated corn,  and  apparently  much  esteemed  by 
natives  as  a  delicacy  to  chew.  They  say  it  is  good 
for  the  teeth  to  get  a  stick  of  sugar  cane  and  suck  it. 
At  all  events,  the  teeth  of  people  addicted  to  this 
wild  dissipation  always  seem  very  white  and  fine. 

Carter  warned  us  that  the  sugar  mill  would  be 
found  rather  hot,  for  any  corrugated  iron  house 
under  a  broiling  sun  is  apt  to  be  so  —  even  without 
the  addition  of  numerous  infernal  fires  such  as  are 
required  to  convert  the  cool  sap  into  molasses  and 
eventually  into  raw  sugar.  But  it  was  promised  not 
to  be  unbearably  warm,  so  we  plunged  into  the 
dusty  depths  of  the  factory  robed  in  the  lightest 
habiliments  of  summer. 

It  was  simple  enough  to  start  with.  One  of  the 
toy  trains  had  just  backed  up  to  the  door,  and  the 
cars  were  being  unloaded  one  by  one.  A  huge  crane 
dropped  its  jaws  over  a  car,  engulfed  the  entire 
contents  in  one  capacious  mouthful,  swung  it  easily 
aloft  —  and  dumped  it  in  a  mammoth  hopper  at 
the  foot  of  an  incline.  The  cane  fell  into  this  hopper 
every-which-way,  much  as  old-fashioned  jack-straws 


196  SAILING  SOUTH 

used  to  do.  At  the  bottom,  unseen  but  active,  there 
was  a  deliberate  treadmill  moving  upward,  very 
like  a  subway  escalator.  The  mass  of  twisted  canes 
heaved  in  a  disquieting  way,  suggestive  of  the  deep 
in  a  storm  —  but  after  a  while  you  could  see  that 
the  mass  really  was  being  propelled  slowly  up  to- 
ward a  pair  of  mammoth  rollers,  which  were  eating 
up  the  stalks  as  if  they  enjoyed  the  job. 

We  climbed  up  there  and  saw  the  presses  at  their 
work.  The  unsuspecting  canes  went  cheerfully  in 
between  the  great  rollers  and  were  crushed  to  bits. 
The  sap  poured  out  into  a  sluice  —  and  the  mangled 
cane  went  on  through  four  other  pairs  of  rollers, 
each  in  turn  taking  its  toll.  At  the  last  that  cane 
had  n't  any  more  sap  left  in  it  than  the  mummy  of 
Thothmes  the  Third  —  and  Carter  fished  out  a  bit 
of  it  to  show  me  how  utterly  dry  and  dead  it  had 
become.  This  dried  refuse,  he  said,  went  to  feed 
the  boilers,  and  he  told  me  how  many  tons  of  the 
stuff  went  to  equal  a  ton  of  coal.  Of  course  I've 
forgotten  that  useful  fact,  now  that  I  want  to  tell 
about  it.  I  only  know  that  they  don't  have  to  use 
much  coal,  and  that  the  dried  cane  makes  a  per- 
fectly terrific  heat.  I  know,  because  I  went  by  an 
open  furnace  door.  I  seem  to  remember  that  he 
said,  weight  for  weight,  the  cane  yielded  about 
eleven  per  cent  in  actual  sugar.  The  rest  went  into 


SUGAR  197 

molasses  and  a  heat  rivaling  that  which  was  once 
turned  on  for  the  benefit  of  Shadrach,  Meshach, 
and  Abednego.  Molasses,  in  its  final  apotheosis,  can 
be  turned  into  rum  —  but  not  in  Porto  Rico,  which 
is  bone-dry. 

For  something  like  nine  months  out  of  the  year 
the  mill  runs  day  and  night.  Then  conies  a  lull 
during  which  the  weary  resident  manager  gets  a 
chance  to  run  home  to  the  States  for  a  bit  of  va- 
cation. The  central  itself  is  n't  allowed  to  own  out- 
right more  than  a  small  tract  of  cane  plantation, 
but  usually  the  neighborhood  manages  to  get  into 
some  kind  of  holding  concern  for  the  use  of  its  ad- 
jacent mill.  Crops  naturally  grow  rapidly  under 
that  wonderful  sky  and  clime.  Carter  said  that 
usually  it  was  wise  to  renew  the  cane  plants  from 
time  to  time,  but  that  he  had  seen  fields  where 
they  claimed  there  had  been  no  renewal  for  some- 
thing like  sixty  years. 

We  did  not  actually  see  sugar  made,  after  all. 
We  saw  the  juice  expressed  and  beheld  it  running 
away  in  a  vast  syrupy  river  through  a  sluice  to  the 

various  vacuum  pans  and  sich,  that  I  believe  figure 

i 

effectively  in  the  process  of  sugaring-off  on  this 
gigantic  scale.  But  the  heat  of  that  part  of  the 
work  was  so  intense  as  to  repel  us  from  visiting 
the  tanks  too  intimately,  and  we  were  hurried  on 


I98  SAILING  SOUTH 

to  the  next  visible  process  which  was  the  separating 
of  the  sugar  itself  from  the  syrup  in  which  it  was 
carried.  That  was  done  by  centrifugal  force,  much 
as  cream  is  separated  from  milk  in  any  ordinary 
dairy.  You  could  see  this  going  on  from  an  elevated 
gallery.  An  attendant  opened  a  pipe  and  filled  a 
vast  copper  cylinder,  which  at  once  began  to  rotate 
until  it  was  going  around  at  a  rate  represented  by 
some  astronomical  figure  in  revolutions  per  minute. 

At  the  end  the  separator  was  emptied  and  the 
sugar  was  taken  out,  and  you  could  go  down  and 
scoop  up  a  handful.  It  was  raw,  in  truth  —  sick- 
ishly  sweet,  and  of  course  brown  in  color  rather  than 
white.  I  can  taste  my  handful  yet.  And  out  be- 
yond were  men  busily  filling  gunnysacks  with  it, 
and  other  men  sewing  them  up,  and  other  men 
piling  the  bags  on  carriers,  and  others  shooting 
them  into  little  cars,  and  others  shoving  the  cars 
down  to  the  pier  —  whence  lighters  took  them  to 
the  steamer  in  the  broad  lagoon.  The  wind  out  on 
the  pier  was  grateful  after  the  inferno  of  the  sugar 
mill. 

We  went  into  the  supply  shed  —  which  struck 
me  as  approaching  in  magnitude  the  train  shed  of 
the  South  Station.  It  had  about  everything  in  the 
world  stowed  away  there.  Mindful  of  the  resource- 
ful country  store  back  in  Carter's  home  town  I 


SUGAR  199 

asked  if  they  had  a  pulpit,  but  he  said  he  thought 
not.  He  had  a  metal  casket  or  two,  for  emergencies, 
and  about  every  kind  of  grocery  and  canned  goods 
that  is  known  to  man;  also  hardware,  dry  goods,  oil 
and  gasoline.  But  they  were  just  out  of  pulpits. 

That  seemed  to  exhaust  the  subject,  so  we  were 
speedily  whirled  away  by  Arturo  and  Antonio.  I 
appreciate  sugar  somewhat  more  than  I  did  — 
even  during  the  shortage.  It  does  n't  look  very 
much  like  the  article  you  get  for  your  table  when  it 
leaves  Porto  Rico;  but,  of  course,  when  it  gets  up  to 
Boston  it  gets  refined  —  like  everybody  else  in  that 
cultured  place  —  and  becomes  holier  and  better.  I 
hope  some  day  to  see  a  refinery  at  work.  But  when 
I  want  to  remember  Carter  I  shall  go  around  to  the 
grocer's  and  call  for  a  pound  of  brown  sugar,  sit 
down  on  a  hot  day  in  front  of  a  roaring  fire,  and 
scoop  up  a  generous  handful  to  eat.  Yummy!  The 
first  taste  is  good  —  but  how  it  stays  by  you ! 


CHAPTER  XIV 
FROM  PONCE  TO  ARECIBO 

FROM  Coamo  to  Ponce  is  but  a  step  as  the 
motor  flies  —  that  is  to  say,  short  of  twenty- 
five  miles  by  a  most  excellent  road.  One  of  the 
writers  whose  works  I  have  read  describes  this 
jaunt  as  reminding  one  of  New  England  —  "either 
Connecticut  or  the  Berkshires."  It  must  be,  then, 
because  it  is  so  different.  It  would  not  occur  to  me 
to  think  of  either  the  Berkshires  or  Connecticut  on 
that  run  —  save  that  macadam  looks  about  the 
same  the  world  over. 

The  road  follows  along  near  the  sea,  over  a 
gently  undulating  country  flanked  on  the  one  side 
by  the  blue  Caribbean  and  on  the  other  by  the 
abrupt  hills  of  the  interior.  The  vegetation  is  not 
the  vegetation  of  New  England  —  not  at  about 
eighteen  degrees  north  of  the  Equator!  It  is  more 
like  the  vegetation  of  South  than  North  America, 
naturally. 

In  the  end  you  roll  across  a  bridge  that  proudly 
announces  its  building  by  the  American  army  of 
occupation  in  1900  or  thereabouts.  It  is  not  a  very 
pretty  bridge,  and  it  is  "hogged"  a  little  in  the 


FROM  PONCE  TO  ARECIBO         201 

middle,  as  the  sailors  would  say.  Possibly  this  is 
due  to  earthquakes,  which  they  have  occasionally 
in  that  neck  o'  the  woods.  But  it  is  a  bridge  that 
carries  you  safe  over  and  therefore  it  is  one  of  which 
to  speak  well.  Eventually  you  pass  a  country  club 
(members  only  admitted)  and  find  yourself  in 
Ponce. 

Ponce  is  not  a  pretty  town  at  all.  Owing  to  the 
frequency  of  quakes  it  seldom  aspires  to  buildings 
of  more  than  two  stories  and  is  usually  content  with 
one.  The  streets  are  all  "dirt"  streets.  As  you  pass 
through  the  city  for  the  first  time  you  are  most 
impressed  by  the  fire  department,  which  occupies 
a  spacious  building  near  the  principal  plaza  and 
which  daily  rolls  back  the  doors  and  takes  off  the 
dust  covers  to  let  you  see  the  motorized  hose  reels. 
It  is  a  very  good-looking  fire  department.  Whether 
it  ever  has  much  work  to  do  I  don't  know.  It  did  n't 
have  to  do  any  while  I  was  there,  but  it  was  on 
daily  exhibition  and  it  made  one  feel  uncommon 
safe. 

Hard  by  was  a  cathedral,  much  the  worse  for 
wear  because  of  the  unusually  big  quake  of  the  pre- 
ceding autumn,  which  had  torn  off  all  the  upper 
part  of  the  fagade,  but  without  disturbing  a  very 
large  and  handsome  oriel  window.  Indeed,  all  down 
the  adjacent  streets  one  might  see  houses  stripped 


202  SAILING  SOUTH 

open  and  rent  by  the  quake,  leaving  the  upper 
rooms  in  somewhat  the  condition  of  the  doll-houses 
of  our  childhood. 

Despite  the  frequent  sprinkling,  the  dirt  streets 
are  dusty  in  the  prevailing  wind  —  when  they  are 
not  a  mass  of  slippery  mud.  It  is  n't  nearly  as  at- 
tractive as  San  Juan,  and  yet  it  has  some  things 
that  San  Juan  has  not  —  notably  gardens.  One 
found  gardens  everywhere,  usually  walled  out  of 
sight,  save  as  the  flowering  vines  and  trees  clambered 
over  the  tops.  The  ladies  affirmed  also  that  it  had 
better  shops  than  San  Juan  and  that  the  people 
seemed  to  speak  more  English.  Nevertheless  the 
prevailing  opinion  seems  to  be  that  Ponce  is  rather 
a  stupid  place  —  flat,  stale,  and  unprofitable  from 
the  tourist  standpoint,  usually  very  hot,  and  al- 
ways beset  by  millions  of  mosquitoes. 

Having  said  which,  let  me  add  with  decorous  haste 
that  during  our  stay,  which  was  indeed  but  four 
days,  the  air  was  delightfully  cool,  and  the  mosqui- 
toes, while  present  in  the  expected  numbers,  did  not 
seem  particularly  voracious.  Of  course  they  are  not 
the  wicked  kind  of  pest  that  brings  the  yellow  fever. 
That's  all  over  and  done  with.  Porto  Rico  has 
been  sanitated  to  the  queen's  taste.  The  Millers  of 
Dee  had  prudently  looked  up  the  mosquito  ques- 
tion before  venturing  thither,  but  unfortunately 


FROM  PONCE  TO  ARECIBO         203 

had  confused  the  data.  They  could  n't  remember 
whether  the  dangerous  mosquito  landed  on  you 
head-first  or  vice  versa.  We  were  compelled  to  take 
chance. 

Ponce  is  theoretically  a  seaport  —  but  so  is  Los 
Angeles.  Ponce  is  only  about  three  miles  from  the 
ocean,  and  Los  Angeles  is  about  twenty  —  but  each 
is  just  as  proud  of  the  seaport  idea  as  Boston,  and 
each  is  connected  with  its  real  port  and  docks  by 
tram.  All  day  long,  alternating  one  with  another, 
street-cars  go  clanging  down  the  dusty  road  to  Ponce 
Playa  and  Ponce  Muelle  —  respectively  the  beach 
and  the  pier.  If  you  inspect  the  beach  you  will  find 
that  it  is  n't  really  much  of  a  beach.  It  is  a  muddy 
settlement  only  less  far  from  the  sea  than  Ponce  it- 
self. But  the  pier  is  the  real  thing,  and  as  it  pro- 
jects into  the  waters  it  seems  to  provide  about  all  the 
actual  harborage  there  is  on  that  side  of  the  island. 

There  are,  however,  one  or  two  small  islands  just 
offshore  which  help  to  make  it  look  like  a  harbor, 
and  within  sight  there  is  a  very  considerable  out- 
lying island  rejoicing  in  the  name  of  "Caja  de 
Muertos"  —  the  Dead  Man's  Chest.  Some  one  had 
told  the  Mogul  that  this  was  what  Stevenson  had  in 
mind  when  he  referred  to  that  immortal  ditty: 

"Sixteen  men  on  the  Dead  Man's  Chest  — 
Yo-ho-ho,  and  a  bottle  of  rum! 


204  SAILING  SOUTH 

Drink  and  the  Devil  had  done  for  the  rest  — 
Yo-ho-ho,  and  a  bottle  of  rum." 

Now  I  always  thought  that  it  meant  the  men  were 
sitting  on  the  dead  man's  ditty-box  —  but  the 
Mogul  says  no.  He  believes  that  they  were  sitting 
marooned  on  the  Caja  de  Muertos.  It  seems  fishy 
to  me. 

There  are  just  about  three  really  good  hotels  in 
Porto  Rico,  and  at  least  one  of  these  is  in  Ponce.  It 
is  a  good  hotel  as  such  things  go  in  the  tropics.  It 
is  kept  by  a  delightful  old  French  lady,  a  widow  who 
speaks  all  languages  indifferent  well.  Mindful  of 
her  homeland  after  forty  years  of  absence  she  calls 
her  hostelry  Hotel  Frances — Anglice,  "French 
Hotel."  It  occupies  a  wind-swept  corner  and  runs 
in  two  spreading  wings  along  two  streets,  a  deep 
courtyard  of  much  greenery  lying  within.  One 
breakfasts  in  the  court,  if  one  wishes.  One  dines  in 
a  lofty  banquet-hall,  the  doors  of  which  open  full  on 
the  outer  square  next  the  main  street.  A  homelike 
touch  is  afforded  by  the  railroad  which  runs  just 
across  the  street  and  devotes  the  nocturnal  hours  to 
the  shifting  of  freight  cars.  Between  the  engine  bell 
and  the  mosquitoes  your  first  night  in  Ponce  in  the 
French  Hotel  is  likely  to  be  wakeful.  The  second 
night,  thanks  to  weariness  ensuing  from  the  first,  one 
does  n't  mind. 


FROM  PONCE  TO  ARECIBO         205 

Every  room  has  a  tiny  alcove  in  which  are  the 
toilet  arrangements,  including  a  shower  bath.  This 
appeals  to  one  more  at  first  sight  than  later  —  be- 
cause in  the  morning  when  you  essay  the  matutinal 
shower  you  discover  that  forty  divisions  of  shock- 
troop  mosquitoes  are  mobilized  there,  ascending  in  a 
cloud  as  you  enter  in  the  state  of  nature  suitable  to 
bathing,  and  bent  on  making  as  much  as  possible 
of  the  glorious  opportunity  which  your  condition 
affords.  Your  one  recourse  is  to  drown  them  while 
they  bite. 

Arturo  and  Antonio,  charioteers  to  our  caravan, 
did  not  take  very  kindly  to  the  programme  we  un- 
folded before  them  as  to  motor  trips  from  Ponce. 
They  had  bargained  for  so  much  money  a  week,  plus 
allowance  for  their  keep  on  a  per  diem  basis  —  but  it 
developed  that  their  idea  of  a  week's  trip  was  to 
circle  the  island,  always  in  one  general  direction, 
and  always  toward  the  point  of  beginning.  The  idea 
of  scooting  away  across  the  island  to  Arecibo  and 
then  away  back  to  Ponce,  when  one  could  go  back 
in  much  less  time  to  San  Juan,  seemed  to  them  both 
extravagant  of  gasoline  and  destructive  of  profits. 
"Gas"  in  Porto  Rico  costs  some  grandiose  price 
which  I  have  forgotten  —  about  fifty  cents,  for  a 
guess.  Moreover  the  roads,  while  splendid,  are  hilly 
and  use  up  a  lot  of  distance  in  curves  in  order  to 


206  SAILING  SOUTH 

cover  forty  linear  miles,  which  means  a  lot  of  fuel. 
Arturo  and  Antonio  looked  glum  enough  when  they 
found  out  how  the  week  was  to  be  put  in.  For  the 
moment  they  had  no  recourse,  but  as  you  will  see, 
Arturo  at  least  was  equal  to  the  emergency. 

I  arose  bright  and  early,  awakened  by  a  tropic 
sun.  The  public  garden  across  the  way  was  deserted 
save  for  Arturo  Cantellupi,  who  was  revealed  mani- 
curing his  shapely  hands  while  reclining  in  unstud- 
ied grace  upon  a  park  bench  under  an  umbrageous 
tree.  Antonio  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  The  sched- 
ule called  for  a  start  at  eight-thirty  —  but  by  this 
time  one  knew  that  eight-thirty  meant  an  hour 
later,  at  least  in  P.R.  This  is  the  reverse  of  daylight 
saving. 

Arturo  spied  me,  airily  attired,  on  my  balcony 
and  waved  a  cordial  salute.  His  lips  moved  and  I 
caught  floating  up  to  me  the  familiar  morning  plaint, 
"Give  me  some  money.  I  broke."  Whatever  the 
linguistic  deficiency  of  Arturo  and  Antonio,  the 
bright  lexicon  of  their  youth  at  least  contained  the 
English  words  most  useful  for  expressing  complete 
financial  destitution.  "I  broke"  was  the  usual  an- 
nouncement which  accompanied  the  call  of  incense- 
breathing  Morn. 

Having  wafted  sundry  kopecs  to  the  waiting  Ar- 
turo, I  disappeared  within  and  Arturo  betook  him- 


FROM  PONCE  TO  ARECIBO         207 

self  to  the  lair  in  which  he  kept  his  car.  One  always 
trusted  he  would  appear  again  —  and  usually  he  did ; 
but  that  was  before  he  despaired  of  coming  out  even 
on  the  gasoline  question.  To-day  at  least  he  was 
back  with  Antonio  at  nine-thirty  and  we  took  the 
Arecibo  road. 

I  suppose  there  may  be  finer  rides  in  the  world. 
There  are  said  to  be  some  at  least  as  fine  in  Porto 
Rico  itself.  But  to  my  mind  that  flight  from  Ponce 
to  Arecibo  in  the  freshness  of  the  morning  has 
advantages  over  any  ride  that  it  has  been  my  for- 
tune to  take  —  and  I  Ve  had  some  fine  ones  first  and 
last,  over  the  Amalfi  Road,  over  the  Grande  Cor- 
nice, over  divers  and  sundry  Swiss  passes,  and  over 
the  Greek  mountains  from  Andritssena  to  Olympia; 
but  none  of  them  offered  anything  much  more 
splendid  than  that  gorgeous  tropic  highroad,  as  it 
wound  in  spiral  curves  up  the  mountain  ridges  of 
Porto  Rico.  Arturo  was  in  his  element.  The  motor 
roared  obedient  to  his  toe.  The  squawking  of  his 
horn  awoke  the  echoes  of  the  mountain  glens.  We 
missed  peasants,  bullock-carts,  good  old-fashioned 
Concord  buggies  (which  are  still  common  in  rural 
Porto  Rico),  wayside  funerals,  and  mammoth  mo- 
tor lorries,  all  by  the  merest  hair.  Antonio,  his 
locks  floating  in  the  wind,  followed  after.  We  rose 
up  on  wings  as  eagles.  Ponce  and  its  plain  soon  lay 


208  SAILING  SOUTH 

at  our  feet.  In  an  hour  we  were  weaving  our  way 
amid  the  remote  and  craggy  heights  that  we  had 
marveled  at  from  below.  The  banks  were  aglow  with 
flowers.  Water  dripped  coolly  down  the  sides  of 
shadowy  cliffs,  and  broad-bladed  banana-trees 
arched  the  road.  After  the  flat  stupidity  of  the  plain 
these  verdure-clad  mountains,  cloaked  in  fruit  and 
coffee,  were  an  unmixed  delight. 

Then  down,  down,  down  —  sweeping  around 
blind  corners,  skimming  the  edge  of  precipices, 
dashing  through  tiny  rivulets  at  the  apex  of  deep 
mountain  dells,  across  an  inland  valley,  up  another 
mountain  chain,  and  on,  on,  on  —  always  at  a  con- 
servative thirty-five  to  forty  miles  an  hour!  I  con- 
fess I  like  to  take  my  scenery  in  more  leisurely 
fashion  —  but  Arturo  had  promised  to  land  us  in 
Arecibo  in  three  hours  and  a  half.  He  did  it.  An- 
tonio was  not  more  than  fifteen  minutes  behind.  I 
would  n't  have  missed  it  for  five  hundred  dollars  and 
I  secretly  affirmed  that  I  would  n't  do  it  again  for 
fifty  thousand  dollars  —  with  Arturo. 

Arecibo  itself  was  n't  much  to  see.  The  Atlantic 
Ocean  roared  with  incessant  breakers  against  its 
white  wall  of  beach  sand,  and  the  sun  bore  down 
with  more  than  Oriental  splendor. '_!  After  a  brief 
stroll  on  the  water-front  I  was  virtually  blind  and 
deaf  —  between  the  glare  of  the  sun  and  the  roar 


FROM  PONCE  TO  ARECIBO         209 

of  the  surf.  But  there  was  a  "tolerable  locanda," 
as  Baedeker  would  have  said  of  the  inn,  and  a 
lunch  that  was  reasonably  good. 

It  was  on  the  way  home  that  the  guileful  Arturo 
bethought  himself  of  a  plan  for  getting  out  of  his 
ruinous  bargain.  His  engine  suddenly  began  to  give 
trouble  —  but  not  until  we  were  within  hail  of 
Ponce.  Down  the  last  long  grade  he  was  able  to 
keep  moving  by  reliance  on  the  good  old  law  of 
gravitation ;  but  once  we  were  in  the  plain  and  only 
two  miles  from  home,  his  machine  simply  lay  down 
and  died.  He  tinkered  vainly  for  an  hour  in  the  dusk. 
Then  a  Ford  came  by,  with  two  extra  seats  in  it  — 
and  in  these  Katrina  and  Mrs.  Mogul  were  ferried  to 
the  French  Hotel.  They  reported  later  that  Arturo's 
mad  driving  was  mild  as  milk  by  comparison.  The 
Ford  raced  another  Ford  all  the  way  to  town, 
through  traffic,  and  up  to  the  hotel  door.  And  its 
driving  was  like  the  driving  of  Jehu. 

The  Mogul  and  I  stayed  by  the  ship  until  after 
dark  Antonio  came  back  with  a  relief  party.  We 
got  home  to  dinner.  Arturo  got  home  somehow 
during  the  night — "all  done  —  finish."  He  was 
paid  off  and  discharged  to  his  apparent  relief  and  to 
the  envious  dismay  of  Antonio,  who  had  n't  thought 
of  having  his  machine  go  bad  so  opportunely.  It 
looked  as  if  we  were  marooned. 


210  SAILING  SOUTH 

And  then  out  of  the  dark  there  came  one  Augus- 
tino  Rodriguez,  with  a  glorious  big  new  car,  resplend- 
ent in  red  paint,  anxious  for  a  cargo  back  to  San 
Juan  next  day.  We  were  saved.  I  had  uncomforta- 
ble thoughts  of  going  back  by  rail — an  eleven-hour 
jaunt;  but  Rodriguez  saved  the  situation  admirably. 
He  proceeded  at  a  pace  consistent  with  inward  and 
holy  calm.  At  the  finest  points  he  invariably  paused 
and  inquired  solicitously,  "You  wish  make  picsh?" 
an  invitation  to  embalm  the  scenery  permanently  in 
kodak  form.  And  at  an  hour  conformable  to  Sun- 
day luncheon  he  had  us  back  at  the  Palace  Hotel  in 
San  Juan,  sunburned,  dusty,  and  well  content. 

Next  day  while  walking  in  the  Plaza,  Katrina  was 
aware  of  one  who,  from  the  shade  of  the  ilexes, 
uttered  an  ear-arresting  "  Pzst!"  It  was  Arturo  the 
Canteloupe.  He  had  got  the  defunct  car  home  after 
all  —  probably  with  a  lucrative  fare,  at  that.  And 
so  far  from  bearing  malice,  he  was  bowing,  smiling, 
and  waving  a  shapely  and  well-manicured  hand. 

So  much  for  motoring  in  the  island.  It  affords 
a  pleasant  interlude  and  the  fleeting  experiments 
chronicled  here  by  no  means  exhaust  the  possibili- 
ties. I  have  said  nothing  of  the  easterly  end  of  the 
island  toward  Fajardo  —  perhaps  in  its  way  the 
pleasantest  of  all,  because  of  its  greater  coolness  in 
addition  to  its  prospects  of  mountain  and  sea.  I 


FROM  PONCE  TO  ARECIBO         211 

have  omitted  the  easily  possible  excursion  through 
San  German  with  its  venerable  church  to  Mayaguez 
—  a  town  which,  while  presently  stricken  as  the 
result  of  recent  quakes,  is  of  growing  importance  as 
a  port  of  call.  One  with  sufficient  time  at  his  dis- 
posal will  discover  these  things  for  himself  and  will 
upon  mature  acquaintance  choose  as  his  favorite 
haunts  the  places  which  most  nearly  fulfill  his 
heart's  desire. 

But  the  universal  conclusion,  I  suspect,  will  be 
that  after  all  is  said  and  done  the  most  livable  part 
of  Porto  Rico  is  in  the  environs  of  San  Juan,  with 
its  delectable  suburbs,  its  teeming  harbor,  its 
gayety,  and  an  abundant  social  life  of  which  a 
prolonged  stay  usually  suffices  to  make  one  most 
agreeably  aware.  The  grassy  spaces  outside  the 
walls,  with  their  broad  outlook  upon  the  illimitable 
ocean;  the  shady  grounds  of  the  venerable  Casa 
Blanca;  the  moss-grown  old  fortresses;  the  inde- 
scribable mixture  of  the  modern  with  the  ancient,  of 
the  present  with  the  past ;  the  survivals  of  the  half - 
legendary  Spanish  days  rubbing  elbows  with  the 
trig  new  schools,  new  hospitals,  new  universities  • — 
all  these  are  the  special  charms  of  San  Juan.  There 
is,  I  am  told,  a  promising  plan  on  foot  for  a  genuine 
college  to  be  devoted  chiefly  to  vocational  culture, 
the  beginnings  of  which  have  already  foreshadowed 


212  SAILING  SOUTH 

success,  in  a  more  remote  part  of  the  island ;  but  to 
me  San  Juan  remains  the  chief  of  Porto  Rican 
memories.  San  Juan  is  the  first  sight  that  greets  you 
after  five  days  of  sailing  —  and  it  is  the  last  that 
attends  you  when  the  vessel  on  which  you  sail  turns 
again  home. 


PART  THREE 
JAMAICA 


CHAPTER  XV 
KINGSTON 

THROUGH  the  open  porthole  as  I  woke,  I  be- 
came aware  of  an  incredibly  splendid  star. 
It  was  low  on  the  horizon  and  it  glared  like  an 
enormous  headlight  in  the  first  flush  of  dawn.  It  was 
probably  Venus. 

I  sprang  from  my  bunk  and  thrust  an  eager  head 
into  the  morning  freshness.  The  sea  was  calm  and 
the  white  ship  was  rushing  through  it  joyously, 
leaving  little  waves  of  foam.  Over  in  the  east  against 
the  growing  light  of  another  day  could  be  seen 
masses  of  tumbling  mountains  —  very  obviously 
the  southern  headlands  of  Haiti.  It  was  the  sort  of 
morning  that  will  always  justify  calling  your  wife 
from  slumber  in  order  to  share  it.  I  called  Katrina — 
who  thrust  another  eager  head  out  of  the  adjacent 
porthole  and  also  saluted  this  distant  prospect  of  the 
isle  containing  the  Black  Republic.  And  then  it  was 
time  to  pack  the  trunk,  because  between-decks  in 
these  low  latitudes  it  gets  very  hot  at  midday  and 
one  is  wise  to  stay  on  deck  as  much  as  one  may. 

If  we  saw  Haiti  at  dawn  we  should  be  in  Jamaica 
at  eve.  Hence  the  trunk. 


2i6  SAILING  SOUTH 

The  island  of  Jamaica  is  far-seen.  When  we  came 
on  deck  after  breakfast,  there  it  lay  on  our  starboard 
bow  —  a  blue  cloud  which  the  eye  at  first  refused  to 
accept  as  mountains.  By  noon  it  was  close  at  hand 
and  the  various  features  of  it  were  more  plain  to 
discern.  Yet  always  one  beholding  a  rugged  coast 
from  far  at  sea  refuses  to  consider  it  personally  at 
all.  That  this  is  a  land  of  men  is  hardly  realized. 
Men  must  be  microscopic  ants,  indeed,  when  you 
look  upon  this  heaving  mass  of  mountains!  What  is 
man,  that  Thou  art  mindful  of  him?  Or  the  son  of 
man  that  Thou  visitest  him?  Here  is  the  immensity 
of  the  sea,  and  yonder  the  vastness  of  the  land  rising 
fold  on  fold,  in  mountain  or  in  cape.  If  there  be  men, 
they  are  lost.  They  are  atoms.  You  face  the  great 
elements  of  God's  creation;  and  man  —  who  boasts 
himself  God's  noblest  creature  —  is  forgotten  until 
you  get  ashore  and  lose  the  perspective.  Then,  alas, 
man  forces  himself  upon  you  as  both  very  real  and 
very  important. 

We  coasted  along  the  eastern  shores  of  Jamaica 
all  the  forenoon.  B.,  who  had  lived  there  as  a  boy 
and  who  still  had  possessions  in  the  island,  produced 
a  glass  and  through  it  revealed  his  plantations  and 
his  house.  And  we  knew  that  from  the  house  we, 
too,  had  been  observed;  for  presently  a  motor  scur- 
ried away  down  the  shore  road  to  head  us  off  at 


KINGSTON  217 

Kingston  —  its  flight  betokened  by  a  cloud  of  dust. 
Red  cliffs  along  the  shore  opened  and  revealed 
inlets  where  tiny  boats  were  loading  bananas  and 
cocoanuts.  The  abrupt  slopes  were  covered  with 
that  tropical  verdure  which  always  seems  to  a  north- 
ern eye  so  "stagy"  and  unreal. 

Then  we  swung  westward  and  overtook  the  sand- 
spit  that  thrusts  out  for  several  miles,  in  a  long, 
curving  arm,  engulfing  a  sheltered  bay  and  forming 
thus  the  great  and  perfectly  sheltered  harbor  of 
Kingston,  the  capital  city.  On  the  very  tip  of  this 
sandy  parenthesis  perches  a  tiny  hamlet  named  Port 
Royal,  which  is  the  quarantine  station  —  a  hot, 
palm-embowered  settlement  of  red  roofs  set  amidst 
greenery,  and  strongly  suggestive  of  a  shrimp  salad 
with  lettuce. 

We  lay  a  long  time  at  Port  Royal  awaiting  the 
port  authorities  —  who  apparently  were  taking  their 
siesta  and  had  no  mind  to  be  aroused  untimely. 
Hard  by  the  U.S.S.  Dixie  was  fast  aground  in  a 
shoal,  and  naval  tugs  labored  to  get  her  free.  The 
cool  sweep  of  the  trade  wind  mitigated  the  sun's 
midsummer  glare.  The  palms  on  shore  waved  their 
fans  —  as  O.  Henry  says,  "like  an  awkward  chorus 
heralding  the  entrance  of  a  prima  donna."  The 
captain,  anxious  to  get  into  port,  cursed  the  stolidity 
of  the  quarantine  —  and  we  waited. 


218  SAILING  SOUTH 

I  now  approach  with  diffidence  and  all  due  hu- 
mility the  story  of  how  Katrina  and  I  figured  for  an 
hour  or  two  as  moral  lepers,  suspected  by  the  Gov- 
ernment and  avoided  by  our  comrades  of  the  ship. 

The  port  officials  finally  arrived.  They  were 
native  Jamaicans,  dusky  of  skin,  but  loyal  subjects 
of  King  George.  They  wore  white  suits,  white 
helmets,  and  were  garbed  also  in  a  little  brief  au- 
thority. They  came  up  a  ladder  and  we  were  all 
ordered  to  meet  them  in  the  dining-saloon.  This  is 
quite  the  usual  thing,  and  one  never  gets  over  the 
uneasy  feeling  that  one  is  a  potential  criminal  — 
or  a  potential  plague-spot.  But  as  a  rule  nobody 
is,  and  after  a  while  the  red  tape  is  exhausted  so 
that  all  hands  may  go  on. 

This  day  there  came  also  a  native  officer  of  immi- 
gration whose  disposition  was  to  magnify  his  office. 
He  first  pounced  upon  Mr.  B.,  whose  two  children 
were  with  him,  but  who  were  not  mentioned  in  the 
passport.  Aha!  Here  may  be  trickery!  "Sah,  you 
say  these  your  two  children.  The  passport  not  men- 
tion them!  How  I  know  they  your  children?" 

Mr.  B.  said  he  knew  they  were  his,  but  the  dusky 
inspector  brushed  this  aside  as  not  evidence.  It 
seemed  to  him  a  very  dark,  dire,  and  probably  dan- 
gerous business.  That  any  sane  man  would  make 
himself  trouble  by  traveling  with  children  not  his 


KINGSTON  219 

own  did  not  strike  this  suspicious  party  as  at  all 
unlikely.  So  he  set  the  B.  family  aside  for  further 
consideration.  Then  he  pounced  on  Mr.  C.,  who 
carried  a  British  passport. 

"Your  name  don't  sound  English,"  proclaimed 
the  inspector  with  a  glare  of  further  suspicion. 

"And  you  don't  look  English,"  retorted  C.,  who 
is  in  fact  Welsh  with  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name. 

This  silenced  the  inspector  and  C.  got  by. 

Then  came  our  downfall.  I  presented  passports 
bearing  pictures  of  Katrina  and  me.  We  are  not 
proud  of  these  pictures.  They  make  me  look  like 
Big  Bill  Haywood  in  a  curiously  angry  mood,  while 
Katrina  looks  like  Emma  Goldman.  The  inspector 
compared  us  with  the  pictures.  I  blushed.  The  in- 
spector looked  dubious. 

Then  he  brightened  —  he  had  found  us  out  — 
and  he  pounced  on  us  with  all  zest.  "You  have  not 
got  a  vise  for  this  place,"  he  shouted. 

"A  vise?  Do  I  need  one?" 

"  Yassah.  You  goin'  to  have  trouble  gettin*  asho'." 

"No  one  told  me  to  get  one,"  I  faltered  —  which 
was  true.  For  with  all  the  red  tape  I  had  to  go 
through  in  New  York  no  one  had  ever  told  me  to 
seek  out  the  British  Consul  for  a  vis£  in  order  to  go 
to  Jamaica.  I  knew  you  had  to  do  it  in  war-time,  and 
even  in  peace  if  you  were  going  to  queer  places  like 


220  SAILING  SOUTH 

Russia  and  Turkey.  But  Jamaica?  Well  —  the 
man  was  evidently  right  and  we  were  wrong,  and  our 
good  repute  fell  from  us  like  a  garment.  We  were 
alone  to  blame,  too.  We  ought  to  have  known  — 
but  we  did  n't. 

"You  cannot  land  until  you  get  a  permit  from  the 
inspector-general,"  thundered  the  potentate  in  a 
voice  suggestive  of  dungeons  and  boiling  oil.  "You 
can't  land!" 

K.  and  I,  very  crestfallen,  slunk  away  and  sat 
isolated  on  the  decks.  Spies!  Obvious  alien  enemies! 
One  sweet  lady  came  and  sat  with  us,  and  cheered  us 
as  best  she  could  —  she  was  Mrs.  B.,  suspected  of 
not  owning  her  own  children.  Together  we  sur- 
veyed a  palm-clad  world  from  which  the  glory  had 
departed. 

And  then  came  the  captain,  tall,  tanned,  cheerful, 
and  contemptuous  of  red  tape,  to  say  we  should  be 
cared  for  in  due  season  in  Kingston.  "You  won't 
be  delayed  an  hour,"  said  he.  " This  always  happens 
to  some  one.  The  consul  always  comes  aboard  and 
fixes  them  up." 

So  it  proved.  The  consul  did  appear  —  a  delight- 
ful gentleman  from  the  South  who  brushed  all 
difficulties  aside  and  made  the  rough  places  smooth. 
Inside  of  a  quarter-hour  we  were  free.  Before  most 
of  the  passengers  we  had  passed  the  customs,  and 


KINGSTON  221 

before  sunset  we  were  ensconced  in  a  breezy  room  at 
the  Myrtle  Bank  Hotel  looking  forth  through  a 
palm-dotted  park  toward  the  bluest  of  blue  harbors. 
The  troubles  of  the  afternoon  vanished  as  if  at  an 
enchanter's  wand.  The  lawn  was  gay  with  fair 
women  and  brave  men,  sitting  at  little  tables  and 
sipping  things  no  longer  to  be  had  in  the  United 
States. 

To  those  of  us  who  are  now  in  that  blest  estate 
called  middle  life,  it  hardly  seems  a  score  of  years 
since  the  Spanish  War.  Why,  it's  only  yesterday! 
And  yet  it  really  is  almost  twenty-five  years  since 
we  first  had  "Kingston,  Jam."  as  the  dispatches 
used  to  call  it,  brought  seriously  to  our  attention. 

In  those  days  the  festive  press  correspondents  who 
hovered  around  the  southern  coast  of  Cuba  used  to 
make  a  bee-line  for  Jamaica  when  they  had  news  to 
send.  Jamaica  lies  only  a  scant  hundred  miles  south 
of  Santiago  de  Cuba,  and  as  the  cable  office  was 
around  on  the  southern  side  of  the  island,  at  King- 
ston, that  was  where  most  of  the  news  came  from  — 
invariably  labeled,  "By  way  of  Kingston,  Jam.; 
delayed  in  transmission." 

Now,  Kingston,  if  the  truth  has  to  be  told  about 
it,  is  one  of  the  hottest,  dustiest,  and,  at  first  sight, 
most  unprepossessing  cities  in  the  world.  It  leads  a 
lazy  and  largely  uneventful  life  —  save  on  those 


222  SAILING  SOUTH 

rare  occasions  when  the  Spanish  War  sends  the  in- 
vading reporters  scurrying  thither  to  file  more  or 
less  mendacious  messages,  or  when  an  earthquake 
mixes  things  up,  or  when  a  colonial  governor  reveals 
a  discourteous  desire  to  tell  the  American  navy  to  go 
to  blazes,  or  maybe  when  a  hurricane  comes  along. 
At  all  other  times  Kingston  is  simply  a  flat,  hot, 
dusty,  negro  town,  with  an  incomparable  harbor  and 
a  lassitudinous  climate. 

The  last  great  earthquake  was  in  1907.  The  city 
has  not  yet  entirely  recovered,  and  as  it  lies  just 
above  a  sandy  substratum  which  feels  to  an  exces- 
sive degree  the  earth  tremors  whenever  they  occur, 
it  lives  in  a  semi-conscious  apprehension  as  to  the 
next  big  quake.  Hence  it  does  not  go  in  for  buildings 
of  a  very  imposing  character,  but  constructs  rather 
lightly  with  a  strong  predilection  for  the  corrugated 
iron  brand  of  roof.  The  streets  are  open  and  wide  — 
where,  according  to  all  the  traditions  of  a  hot  climate, 
they  ought  to  be  narrow  and  very  deep  so  that  they 
might  be  cool.  Architecturally  and  scenically  there 
is  no  comparison  between  Kingston  and  San  Juan 
in  Porto  Rico,  which  does  not  show  the  latter  to 
advantage. 

I  have  said  Kingston  is  a  negro  town,  but  in  that 
respect  it  is  like  every  other  place  in  Jamaica.  Traces 
of  the  Spanish  occupation  are  difficult  to  find, 


KINGSTON  223 

whereas  in  Porto  Rico  they  are  everywhere.  But 
of  course  that  is  only  natural.  The  Spaniards  did  n't 
last  long  in  Jamaica  —  not  more  than  one  hundred 
and  fifty  years  —  and  the  British  have  had  the  is- 
land ever  since  the  piping  times  of  Cromwell.  The 
really  curious  thing  is  that  traces  of  the  current 
British  occupation  are  almost  as  hard  to  find  as 
traces  of  the  ancient  Spanish.  I  used  to  wonder  at 
finding  the  Americans  had  made  so  small  an  impres- 
sion on  the  outward  face  of  things  in  San  Juan,  after 
twenty  years  of  control  there;  but  what  shall  one 
say  of  Jamaica,  where  after  several  centuries  of 
colonial  oversight  the  British  have  made  similarly 
small  outward  impressions  on  the  island? 

To  be  sure,  the  native  negro  speaks  English  — 
but  it  is  not  always  very  good  English;  and  more 
especially  when  one  overhears  two  natives  in  ani- 
mated conversation  it  is  difficult,  indeed,  to  com- 
prehend. It  might  be  a  foreign  language  as  well  as 
not,  and  I  suppose  it  amounts  to  that.  But  it  is  a 
rather  fascinating  language,  uttered  in  a  voice  that 
makes  you  sigh  to  be  reared  on  bananas  yourself  if 
it  will  produce  any  such  melodious  tone  after  a 
generation  or  two. 

You  will  probably  be  told,  when  you  first  go  to 
Jamaica,  that  the  negroes  are  insufferable  beggars. 
The  fact  is  they  are  n't  any  more  insufferable  than 


224  SAILING  SOUTH 

any  beggars  in  any  land  where  tourist  travel  is 
common.  The  wayside  children  will  gleefully  ex- 
tend their  hands  shouting,  "Gimmee  monee!"  But 
they  don't  expect  you  will  give  them  money,  and 
they  grin  over  the  demand  as  if  they  knew  it  was  a 
delicious  joke.  I  have  not  discovered  any  marked 
propensity  among  the  adult  population  to  beg  — 
not  nearly  so  much  as  I  have  observed  in  Italy. 
But  first  impressions  are  bound  to  be  strong  and 
lasting ;  and  the  fact  is  that  one  landing  in  Kingston 
among  the  water-front  darkies  will  be  impressed  at 
first  by  the  mendicancy  common  to  all  water-fronts 
in  the  world. 

It  begins  when  the  steamer  is  being  warped  into 
her  pier.  A  score  of  naked  boys,  as  black  as  ebony, 
will  certainly  be  disporting  in  the  sea  —  precisely 
as  they  do  in  Madeira,  or  in  Naples  —  swim- 
ming about,  rolling  over,  diving  after  coins,  and 
beseeching  the  curious  crowd  that  hangs  over 
the  steamer  rail  to  throw  money  down  in  order 
to  give  them  the  chance  to  show  their  aquatic 
prowess. 

"Shoot  me  a  nickel,  Judge!"  (The  Jamaica 
darkey  loves  to  flatter  you  with  titles.)  "Shoot  me 
a  nickel,  Doc ! "  —  or  maybe  he  hails  you  as  "  Chief." 
Those  to  whom  all  this  is  a  novelty  will  of  course 
provide  the  necessary  largess  and  the  scramble  that 


KINGSTON  225 

ensues  among  rival  divers  is  on  the  whole  well 
worth  the  donation. 

By  the  time  the  ship  is  made  fast  and  by  the 
time  passengers  are  officially  permitted  to  go 
ashore,  the  land  army  of  the  predatory  poor  is 
always  mobilized  and  waiting.  It  takes  the  form  of 
volunteer  porters  and  carriage  touts.  The  dock  is 
a  hot  place,  smelling  of  spices  and  carefully  fenced 
off  from  the  mitigating  breeze.  It  is  roofed  with  the 
omnipresent  corrugated  iron,  cooking  under  the 
blazing  afternoon.  One  pays  whatever  price  one  is 
asked,  to  be  quickly  out  of  it.  One  is  conscious  that 
it  is  a  country  where,  to  say  the  least,  white  men 
do  not  predominate.  Customs  officers  are  of  dusky 
hue.  So  are  the  porters,  drivers,  chauffeurs,  and 
dock  watchmen. 

Now,  if  you  are  wise  and  if  you  have  had  expe- 
rience with  landings  in  strange  ports,  you  will  make 
up  your  mind  to  be  more  or  less  agreeably  swindled 
as  the  price  of  your  initiation.  One  may  not  com- 
plain. It's  the  way  of  the  world.  It  used  to  be  just 
as  common  in  Boston,  when  the  hackmen  charged 
unsuspecting  visitors  a  dollar  to  drive  from  the  old 
Lowell  Depot  to  the  Fitchburg  Depot  —  only  a 
few  doors  away.  I  suspect  it  is  done  everywhere. 
So  you  cheerfully  shell  out  small  change  as  you 
progress  down  the  aromatic  pier,  sweltering  past 


226  SAILING  SOUTH 

the  customs;  and  finally  you  emerge  in  the  dusty 
street  beyond,  where  rival  claimants  bespeak  your 
patronage  for  their  vehicles,  each  of  them  frankly  a 
highway  robber  preying  upon  the  innocent. 

On  the  second  visit  you  will  be  wise  and  not  such 
an  easy  victim;  but  that  glorious  first  time  is  sure 
to  be  a  harvest  for  the  myriad  who  find  in  steamer- 
day  their  chief  source  of  revenue.  The  motor- 
driver  unblushingly  asks  you  $1.50  to  take  you  to 
the  Myrtle  Bank  —  five  minutes  away  at  best. 
The  light  local  carriages  cheerily  demand  fifty 
cents  —  although  next  day  you  will  find  that  the 
regular  fare  for  a  "course"  is  only  sixpence  per 
person.  Who  cares?  This  is  Jamaica  —  and  a  week 
ago  one  was  freezing  in  New  York!  Take,  O  Jehu, 
thrice  thy  fee ! 

Riding  through  the  late  afternoon  toward  the 
hotel  gives  you  a  poor  first  glimpse  of  the  town. 
You  had  n't  looked  for  just  this  kind  of  a  place. 
You  had  probably  thought  of  it  as  ancient,  with 
moss-grown  walls  casting  a  grateful  shade.  Instead 
it  is  all  painfully  new  —  hardly  a  dozen  years  old. 
Evidently  it  has  n't  rained  very  lately,  or  if  it  has 
it  has  dried  up.  Things  have  a  rather  barren  look. 
The  structures  along  the  street  seem  discouraged 
and  rather  transitory.  But  eventually  you  turn 
into  the  courtyard  of  the  Myrtle  Bank  and  forget 


KINGSTON  227 

all  about  the  rest  —  because  all  at  once  you  have 
come  upon  genuine  pleasantness  and  peace. 

No  one  is  more  alive  to  the  fact  that  "Myrtle 
Bank"  are  two  distinct  and  separate  words  than 
the  telegraph  office  —  one  notes  little  points  like 
that  at  a  shilling  a  word!  Presumably  there  is  a 
justification  alike  for  the  separation  and  for  the  use 
of  the  epithet  "Myrtle"  —  although  you  will  prob- 
ably look  in  vain  for  the  latter.  But  you  will  speed- 
ily agree  that  the  prospect  from  the  hotel,  looking 
through  an  avenue  of  palms  across  a  fair  green 
lawn  to  the  smooth  bosom  of  the  harbor,  is  infinitely 
beautiful;  and  when  you  discover  those  people  in 
white  garments  seated  in  the  shade  below,  sipping 
those  mysterious  beverages  from  tall  glasses,  the 
conquest  is  likely  to  be  complete.  You  suddenly 
remember  that  you  are  hot  and  thirsty.  The  pro- 
cedure indicated  in  your  case  is  perfectly  clear.  So 
you  descend,  secure  a  comfortable  rocking-chair  on 
the  lawn,  and  consult  with  the  gentlemanly  at- 
tendant, who  hovers  watchfully  about,  as  to  the 
most  suitable  treatment  for  one  just  arrived  by 
steamer  from  an  arid  and  austere  land.  The  waving 
palms  of  Jamaica  are  by  no  means  the  only  insignia 
of  an  oasis  which  the  land  has  to  show. 

The  most  impressive  thing  about  Kingston  is 
always  the  heat.  Being  on  the  south  side  of  the 


228  SAILING  SOUTH 

island,  it  is  naturally  warmer  than  the  towns  of  the 
north  coast.  It  lies  on  a  gradually  rising  slope 
which  extends  back  several  miles  from  the  sea  and 
then  rather  abruptly  becomes  a  first-rate  mountain 
something  like  seven  thousand  feet  high.  The  chief 
peak  of  this  mountain,  called  Blue  Mountain  and 
famed  for  its  coffee,  is  seldom  visible  owing  to 
persistent  clouds.  But  at  evening  —  or  perhaps 
more  often  at  very  early  dawn  —  it  is  often  clear 
and  always  decidedly  impressive. 

Down  on  the  shore  where  Kingston  lies  the  tem- 
perature is  that  of  a  good,  hot  summer  day — per- 
haps 90°  in  the  shade  —  but  usually  tempered  by 
a  wind  which  blows  off  the  sea  during  the  daytime, 
and  almost  invariably  by  a  cool  breeze  off  the 
mountain  by  night.  If  you  are  wise  you  will  seek 
quarters  on  the  landward  side  of  the  hotel ;  for  while 
this  is  going  to  make  it  pretty  hot  in  the  daytime, 
it  is  almost  sure  to  give  you  a  decently  cool  night. 
People  on  that  side  of  the  hotel  tell  me  they  use 
blankets.  On  my  side,  which  is  toward  the  water, 
blankets  strike  you  as  a  superfluity.  My  chamber 
door  has  a  lattice,  however,  which  you  can  hook  — 
thus  giving  you  a  draught  of  air  if  you  don't  mind  a 
modified  publicity  during  slumber. 

I  hasten  to  add  that  the  Myrtle  Bank  is  a  very 
admirable  hotel,  and  that  it  shares,  with  the  Titch- 


THE  WAVING  PALMS  OF  JAMAICA 


KINGSTON  229 

field  in  Port  Antonio,  the  distinction  of  being  the 
only  really  pretentious  hostelry  in  the  island.  Not 
that  there  are  no  other  places  to  stay  —  for  there 
are  several,  and  very  comfortable,  too.  But  these 
twain  are  the  only  really  first-grade  hotels;  and 
they  are  run,  like  so  many  other  things  in  Jamaica, 
by  the  United  Fruit  Company.  Years  ago  I  used 
to  be  told  that  the  U.F.  Co.  seemed  to  operate 
"nearly  everything  in  Jamaica  but  the  flag"  —  and 
now  they  will  tell  you  that  it  runs  about  everything 
there  that  Sir  John  Pringle  does  n't.  The  United 
Fruit  is  vastly  more  in  evidence,  certainly,  than  the 
British  Empire;  and  I  am  convinced  that  what 
things  it  does  in  Jamaica,  as  in  other  islands  and 
countries  of  the  Caribbean,  it  does  extremely  well. 

After  two  or  three  somnolent  days  —  during 
which  you  buy  a  new  straw  hat,  or  a  pith  helmet, 
and  get  used  to  the  weather  —  you  begin  to  poke 
about  the  town  and  find  it  much  better  than  you 
expected  at  first.  The  main  streets  are  still  dis- 
appointing, architecturally  —  but  you  must  n't  ex- 
pect lofty  houses,  or  very  much  brick  and  mortar, 
in  a  town  which  periodically  tumbles  into  a  heap 
because  of  some  seismic  disturbance.  You  find  some 
rather  decent  shops  —  with  no  wares  to  sell  which 
will  seem  to  you  at  all  bizarre,  but  with  sales- 
people with  whom  it  is  a  pleasure  to  deal.  After  the 


230  SAILING  SOUTH 

studied  discourtesy  of  many  a  New  York  shop  the 
soft-spoken  Jamaican  clerk  is  a  delight. 

Then  there 's  a  great  public  market  which  every- 
body goes  to  in  the  early  forenoon  before  the  sun 
gets  fully  tuned  up  to  its  day's  task.  It  is  a  vast 
open-sided  shed,  roofed  with  the  inevitable  iron 
and  surrounding  a  sunlit  square.  You  can  buy 
nearly  everything  here  that  is  good  to  eat.  The 
exotic  fruits  of  which  you  have  heard  —  mangoes, 
bread-fruit,  custard  apples,  star  apples,  ackies, 
yampies,  plantains,  yams  —  are  all  around,  but  you 
will  probably  find  that  they  are  n't  really  ripe  until 
next  month.  There  are  vegetables,  both  familiar 
and  otherwise  —  peas  that  have  funny,  bunchy 
pods,  each  pod  in  its  separate  compartment.  But 
the  tourist  in  quest  of  something  to  carry  off  as  a 
memento  will  always  drift  over  to  the  department 
where  native  baskets  are  to  be  had  and  will  find 
therein  abundant  reward.  Besides,  it  is  a  genuine 
pleasure  to  do  business  with  these  children  of  na- 
ture, with  their  soft-spoken  negro  dialect  in  which 
one  is  always  called  "Massa"  or  "Mistress."  One 
begins  to  fancy  one's  self!  If  I  have  heard  one 
woman  I  have  heard  a  hundred,  moaning  over  the 
inability  to  import  half  the  islanders  of  Jamaica  to 
help  solve  the  problem  of  domestic  help  in  "the 
States." 


KINGSTON  231 

Transportation  about  town  is  accomplished 
chiefly  by  light  Surrey  wagons,  known  to  the  people 
as  "busses."  There  are  trolley  cars,  too,  but  they 
are  useful  chiefly  to  the  residents  who  know  how  to 
use  them.  For  the  casual  visitor  the  "bus"  affords 
a  cheap  and  sufficiently  commodious  vehicle.  When 
you  don't  want  a  bus  there  are  sure  to  be  a  dozen 
waiting  in  the  next  street.  When  you  do  want  one 
they  have  generally  vanished ;  but  one  will  turn  up 
within  a  few  blocks,  always,  and  there  is  never  any 
quibble  over  fares.  Everybody  knows  it's  sixpence 
a  head  —  and  as  that  is  absurdly  little,  of  course 
everybody  rides.  It  is  too  warm  to  walk  comfort- 
ably, anyhow.  The  little  and  rather  bony  horses 
seem  not  to  mind  it. 

Motor  traffic  is  small,  for  the  reason  chiefly  that 
"gas"  is  both  scarce  in  quantity  and  prohibitive  in 
price.  The  reigning  figure  this  winter  (1920)  has 
been  one  dollar  a  gallon  (British),  or  about  ninety 
cents  a  gallon  (American).  On  some  occasions, 
when  we  have  been  motoring  in  outlying  places 
and  the  tank  got  low,  we  could  n't  buy  gasoline  for 
love  or  money  —  and  had  to  telephone  back  to  that 
Good  Fairy,  the  United  Fruit,  which  could  appar- 
ently rub  a  mysterious  lamp  and  produce  gasoline 
on  a  pinch  almost  anywhere  —  even  as  Moses  smote 
the  rock  and  produced  a  spring  in  the  wilderness. 


232  SAILING  SOUTH 

To  atone  for  various  shortcomings  I  went  on 
Sunday  to  the  church  and  sat  among  the  people.  It 
was  an  experience.  I  don't  know  how  you  had  con- 
ceived it,  but  my  impression  was  that  the  colored 
brother  was  always  an  African  Methodist,  or  about 
every  sort  of  church  but  the  Episcopalian.  In 
Jamaica  he  is  of  the  Church  of  England,  and  what's 
more  he  does  n't  have  to  be  prodded  into  attendance. 
The  good  local  canon  with  whom  I  talked  after  the 
service  told  me  that  on  Sundays  the  church  was 
literally  packed  twice  a  day  —  at  early  morning 
communion  and  at  vespers.  At  the  midday  service 
the  crowd  was  smaller,  but  still  impressive.  Its 
Sunday  clothes  were  a  revelation.  I  saw  one  negro 
mammy  with  a  court  train  nearly  ten  feet  long. 

"We  don't  draw  the  color  line  here,  as  you  ob- 
serve," said  the  canon.  "Most  of  my  parish  are 
colored  people,  and  white  and  colored  worship  to- 
gether." 

The  choir  boys  were  all  negroes  —  with  the  ex- 
ception of  one  who  seemed  to  me  to  be  either  Japa- 
nese, or  Chinese.  In  fact  you  become  used  after  a 
time  to  the  presence  of  numerous  Celestials,  against 
whom  there  is  apparently  no  local  prejudice  or 
exclusion  policy.  I  recall  seeing  none  in  Oriental 
dress;  but  the  features  were  unmistakable  and  inter- 
marriages have  not  eradicated  the  distinctive  cast  of 


KINGSTON  233 

countenance.  One  of  the  most  ostentatious  of  the 
buildings  in  Kingston  is  the  Chinese  Free  Masonic 
Home. 

After  a  bit  you  become  quite  used  to  seeing  every- 
thing official  done  by  the  negro.  There  is  an  ebony 
policeman  on  guard  at  the  corner  —  a  most  gorgeous 
policeman  in  a  hot-looking  uniform  of  blue,  with 
loads  of  torrid  red  trimmings  and  brass  buttons.  He 
grins  a  broad  and  charitable  grin.  I  imagine  his 
pride  keeps  him  cool  —  for  it 's  a  poor  rule  that  won't 
work  both  ways. 

They  always  tell  you,  as  in  Porto  Rico,  on  no 
account  to  hire  a  native  chauffeur  for  a  motor 
excursion,  because  the  negro  drivers  are  so  reckless 
on  the  mountain  curves  —  and  then  you  discover 
that  you  can  find  none  but  native  drivers  anywhere. 
England,  which  rules  the  country,  maintains  a  gov- 
ernor whom  you  seldom  or  never  see.  Apparently 
the  negroes  do  the  rest,  ably  assisted  by  a  very  small 
white  population  and  by  the  extensive  activities  of 
the  United  Fruit.  And  yet,  while  there  are  some- 
thing like  900,000  negroes  in  the  island,  I  have  been 
told  that  not  more  than  28,000  are  registered  to 
vote  —  because  there  is  a  tax  of  ten  shillings  (about 
like  our  two  dollar  poll-tax)  which  only  that  num- 
ber either  care,  or  are  able,  to  pay.  Not  a  prodigious 
amount  of  native  voting  is  therefore  done,  and  yet 


234  SAILING  SOUTH 

every  one  seems  fairly  comfortable  about  it.  I 
heard  no  mutter  of  unrest  such  as  I  heard  so  fre- 
quently the  year  before  in  Porto  Rico.  In  Jamaica, 
man  evidently  wants  but  little  here  below  and  gets 
that  little  easily.  Fuel  problems  worry  him  not  at 
all.  He  wants  ice  rather  than  coal.  A  few  pennies  a 
day  will  keep  any  Jamaican  going  in  the  matter  of 
food.  It  is  an  easy  land  to  live  in;  and  although  it 
has  not  as  yet  seen  its  way  clear  to  embrace  the 
glorious  doctrine  of  the  teetotalers,  I  have  to  report 
that  drunkenness  among  the  natives  seems  very  far 
from  common.  Perhaps  this  is  due  to  the  prices.  The 
Hindu  people  —  for  there  is  a  sizable  coolie  popu- 
lation in  Jamaica  —  are  prone  to  celebrate  a  little 
on  Saturday  nights,  and  there  is  usually  an  amusing 
session  of  the  local  police  court  every  day,  in  which 
neighborhood  quarrels  get  themselves  aired ;  but  on 
the  whole  Jamaica  seems  on  casual  inspection  to  be  a 
happy  land. 

You  will  not  be  many  hours  in  Jamaica  before  you 
realize  that  the  present  greatness  of  the  island  rests 
in  the  first  instance  upon  the  banana.  About  half  a 
century  ago  a  New  England  sea-captain,  Lorenzo 
Baker,  out  of  Wellfleet,  Massachusetts,  touched  at 
the  island  bringing  down  with  him  from  the  North  a 
general  cargo.  Having  discharged  it  and  entertaining 
the  thrifty  seaman's  aversion  to  returning  home  in 


KINGSTON  235 

wholly  unremunerative  ballast,  he  cast  about  for 
something  wherewith  to  fill  his  ship.  Nothing  but 
green  bananas  appeared  to  be  available,  and  as  a 
last  resort  the  Cape  Cod  skipper  took  a  sporting 
chance.  At  that  time,  incredible  as  it  may  seem, 
the  banana  was  almost  wholly  unknown  in  northern 
latitudes.  A  few  —  a  very  few  —  had  been  brought 
into  New  York,  but  the  reception  accorded  them 
was  not  sufficiently  flattering  to  warrant  a  further 
importation.  It  remained  for  Captain  Baker  to 
bring  into  Boston  —  always  an  appreciative  town  — 
the  fruit  which  is  now  so  popular  and  so  highly  im- 
portant in  the  domestic  economics  of  Jamaica. 

So  profitable  did  this  venture  prove  that  Captain 
Baker  went  back  and  got  some  more  —  eventually 
acquiring  lands  of  his  own  for  banana  culture 
and  ultimately  evolving  the  transportation  system 
which,  together  with  the  plantations,  formed  the 
kernel  of  the  present  United  Fruit  Company.  In 
short,  Cap'n  Lorenzo  builded  better  than  he  knew, 
or  could  possibly  have  dreamed. 

The  number  of  bunches  of  the  fruit  imported 
into  the  entire  United  States  in,  say,  1870  was  but 
a  few  hundred.  By  1900  the  trade  had  grown  to  a 
total  of  $6,000,000  a  year  —  and  I  have  no  statis- 
tics at  hand  to  show  what  it  is  now,  twenty  years 
later,  with  the  prices  of  all  things  away  up  in  the 


236  SAILING  SOUTH 

sky.  But  I  do'  know  that  from  the  tiny  beginnings 
there  has  grown  up  a  colossal  "interest"  which  is 
under  American  control  and  which  has  proved  to 
be  the  most  successful  exploiter  of  the  tropics  since 
the  bygone  days  of  Old  Spain.  Nor  has  the  exploita- 
tion been  a  one-sided  matter,  as  I  may  possibly 
have  remarked  elsewhere,  since  the  condition  of 
every  part  of  the  tropics  thus  invaded  has  been 
immensely  improved  in  the  process. 

The  banana  is  a  surprising  tree  —  if  indeed  it  be 
proper  to  call  it  a  tree.  In  some  ways  it  is  more  like  a 
gigantic  lily  growing  out  of  a  species  of  enormous 
bulb.  The  claim  is  made  that  once  a  root  is  estab- 
lished it  will  spring  up  and  bear  fruit  within  eight  or 
ten  months.  It  sends  out  quantities  of  shoots  — 
but  these  are  usually  cut  back  leaving  one  main 
trunk  to  bear  fruit  this  year  and  one  or  two  others 
to  be  ready  for  the  next  crop.  It  must  be  a  poor  hut 
in  Jamaica  that  has  n't  a  few  banana-trees  in  its 
front  yard. 

Always  the  banana- tree  is  an  untidy  thing.  It  has 
tremendous  bladed  leaves  that  hang  down,  five  or 
six  feet  long,  looking  much  like  swords  of  the 
Samurai.  These  grow  ragged  and  rusty  after  a  time, 
and  when  finally  too  dry  for  anything  else  are  used 
for  thatching  the  roofs,  or  lining  the  walls  of  native 
huts.  Meantime  a  serpentine  shoot  puts  out  from 


KINGSTON  237 

the  upper  part  of  the  trunk,  which  eventually  bears 
a  bunch  of  bananas  of  a  vivid  and  arsenical  green. 
This  shoot  presents  at  the  outset  only  a  rudimen- 
tary bud,  but  later  scales  develop  which  turn  into 
upward-pointing  flowers.  The  bud  remains  and 
closes  its  career  as  a  huge  red  blossom.  The  upward- 
pointing  flowers  become  bananas,  and  they  will 
probably  number  about  one  hundred  and  fifty  to  the 
bunch.  The  orthodox  tree  bears  but  one  bunch  a 
year;  but  when  you  have  thousands  and  millions  of 
these  trees,  all  under  scientific  cultivation,  as  the 
big  fruit-growers  do,  you  can  easily  see  what  a  tidy 
little  business  it  may  become.  Especially  so  if  you 
can  control  both  ends  —  the  buying  and  the  selling 
—  after  the  modern  manner  of  large  commercial 
organizations. 

Naturally  the  growth  of  the  business  has  brought 
with  it  the  scientific  development  of  banana  culture. 
The  local  manager,  to  whom  I  was  early  introduced 
and  whom  I  may  refer  to  occasionally  as  K.,  took 
me  through  a  few  of  the  orchards  nearest  to  King- 
ston within  a  day  or  two  of  my  advent  and  explained 
some  of  the  difficulties  encountered.  The  banana 
is  not  free  from  pests  and  diseases,  which  have  to  be 
sprayed  for  as  well  as  prayed  against.  A  genuine 
hurricane  —  happily  not  of  frequent  occurrence  — 
will  certainly  lay  flat  every  banana  tree  in  its  path ; 


238  SAILING  SOUTH 

but  I  believe  they  meet  this  in  part  by  inclining  the 
trees  in  the  direction  from  which  such  winds  may 
be  expected. 

In  the  big  farms  —  which  go  locally  by  the 
unlovely  name  of  "pens,"  by  the  way  —  systematic 
irrigation  is  practiced.  Hurricane  damage  is  of  less 
moment  in  banana  groves  than  in  cocoanut  forests 
because  the  banana  is  a  quick-growing  plant  and 
can  be  propagated  rapidly  from  cuttings;  whereas 
a  cocoanut  palm  takes  a  score  of  years  to  become 
fruitful  and  therefore  has  to  be  insured  —  for  which 
purpose  you  discover  that  the  cocoanut-trees,  like 
the  hairs  of  your  head,  are  all  numbered. 

I  have  never  yet  found  any  one  who  could  tell  me 
truly  the  difference  between  a  banana  and  a  plan- 
tain, although  many  have  tried.  A  number  of  rules 
for  distinguishing  the  two  fruits  are  offered,  all  of 
them,  I  judge,  lies.  One  will  assert  that  bananas 
grow  pointing  upward,  and  plantains  pointing  down 
—  and  lo,  you  will  find  the  plantains,  like  their  more 
aristocratic  neighbors,  looking  aloft!  I  have  come  to 
believe,  speaking  subject  to  correction,  that  a  plan- 
tain is  nothing  more  than  a  coarser  brand  of  banana, 
larger  in  size,  less  delicate  in  flavor,  and  growing  in 
smaller  clusters.  Baked  plantain  is  an  inevitable 
factor  in  all  island  meals,  much  as  potatoes  are  at 
home.  It  is  more  palatable  than  the  yam,  also  in- 


KINGSTON  239 

evitable,  which  in  unskillful  hands  has  all  the  inspir- 
ing flavor  of  a  pine  board. 

•  I  discover  in  the  books  the  statement  that  the 
banana  does  not  grow  wild  —  yet  I  find  this  hard  to 
believe  since  it  must  have  started  wild  somewhere. 
It  may  have  been  in  India.  Theophrastus  somewhere 
refers  to  a  mysterious  Indian  fruit  which  he  called 
Musa  sapientium  —  the  Muse  of  the  Wise  —  and 
science  without  too  much  warrant  has  adopted  the 
idea  that  this  refers  to  the  banana  of  old.  It  is  an 
extremely  good  food,  whether  for  the  wise  or  not, 
although  less  in  food-value,  I  am  told,  than  an  equal 
weight  of  potato.  Possibly  you  will  appreciate  your 
next  banana  more  for  knowing  that  it  is  of  the 
Scitaminacea  family.  Possibly  not. 

It  should  be  added  for  completeness  that  the  usual 
height  of  a  banana-tree  is  from  fifteen  to  forty  feet, 
the  mean  between  those  extremes  being  a  fair  state- 
ment of  the  case  usually  met.  A  ride  through  inter- 
minable groves  of  them  does  not  greatly  please  the 
eye,  but  probably  produces  a  pleasurable  sensation 
in  the  region  of  the  owner's  pocketbook.  I  was 
informed  (1920)  that  the  price  of  an  ordinary  bunch 
of  bananas  on  the  tree  was  about  seventy-five  cents. 
They  cost  slightly  more  than  that,  as  you  may  have 
noticed,  when  delivered  over  the  counter  at  home; 
but  it  has  cost  some  one  a  pretty  penny  to  harvest, 


240  SAILING  SOUTH 

refrigerate,  ripen,  and  store  them  in  the  interval, 
and  naturally  one  also  expects  a  profit  on  the  total 
investment. 

Bananas  are  always  picked  green.  If  ripened  on 
the  tree  they  acquire  a  woody  flavor  and  are  spoiled. 
The  Jamaican  usually  ripens  his  in  a  barrel,  and  those 
that  are  thus  matured  near  the  spot  of  origin  cer- 
tainly do  taste  better  than  those  freighted  to  a  dis- 
tance. 

K.  took  me  through  a  number  of  the  plantations 
—  chiefly  banana  "pens"  —  in  each  of  which  there 
was  a  little  village  for  the  workmen,  a  little  school, 
and  probably  also  a  tiny  church.  There  were  also 
sections  devoted  to  cocoanut,  cocoa,  sugar  cane,  and 
what-not,  but  the  banana  was  the  chief.  I  discovered 
to  my  reassurance  that  "copra,"  which  I  had 
vaguely  guessed  was  a  noisome  snake,  was  really 
nothing  but  dried  cocoanut  after  the  essential  oil  has 
been  expressed.  The  oil  you  will  discover  is  increas- 
ingly in  demand  owing  to  its  manifold  uses  and  to  its 
power  of  keeping  indefinitely  without  deterioration. 
There  are  no  snakes  worth  speaking  of  in  Jamaica  — 
although  there  are  mongooses  (possibly  I  mean 
mongeese?)  and  occasional  ticks.  The  latter  one  may 
avoid  by  keeping  away  from  long  grass  and  from 
places  frequented  by  cattle.  I  have  never  seen  a 
Jamaica  tick,  but  it  was  the  thing  about  which  I 


KINGSTON  241 

heard  most  before  going  to  the  island.  If  you  get  one 
under  the  skin,  they  say  the  proper  course  is  to 
anoint  the  place  with  kerosene  —  in  response  to 
which  unguent  the  tick  politely  backs  out  of  your 
presence.  Otherwise  if  you  attempt  to  deal  harshly 
with  him  he  leaves  his  head  behind  and  makes  you 
trouble. 

Not  much  can  be  said  for  the  rides  immediately 
around  Kingston  from  the  scenic  standpoint.  The 
mountains  lie  farther  back,  and  the  foreground  is  a 
gently  undulating  plain  traversed  by  roads  which 
are  both  dusty  and  moderately  rough.  Nevertheless 
there  are  one  or  two  things  to  see  and  marvel  at  — 
such,  for  instance,  as  the  mammoth  tree  still  called 
"Tom  Cringle's  Tree,"  which  stands  hard  by  the 
Spanish  Town  road.  In  appearance,  and  judging  by 
its  girth  and  height,  it  might  as  well  have  been 
Noah's.  It  is  indescribably  prodigious,  and  its  trunk 
is  fantastic  with  its  huge  folds  of  bark  and  its  flying 
buttresses  standing  out  all  around  as  if  to  shore  it  up. 
It  is  a  cotton  wood ;  and  such  trees  are  not  uncommon 
in  the  island,  although  seldom  of  this  commanding 
size  and  obvious  age.  There  is  one  nearly  as  notable 
at  St.  Ann,  between  the  mammoth  roots  of  which 
some  ancient  seafaring  worthy  caused  his  tomb  to 
be  constructed.  The  negroes  prefer  these  trees,  I 
think,  as  the  material  for  their  dugout  canoes. 


242  SAILING  SOUTH 

That  there  is  any  particular  reason  for  calling 
this  "Tom  Cringle's  Tree"  I  do  not  know.  It  is  not 
probable  that  he  was  hanged  from  it.  But  it  is  cer- 
tain that  he  wrote  a  book  —  a  much  better  book 
than  this  —  called  "Tom  Cringle's  Log"  describ- 
ing his  tropical  voyages,  which  is  still  read  by  the 
curious  and  widely  extolled  by  such  as  know  it. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  ISLE  OF  SPRINGS 

SINCE  so  much  has  been  said  of  the  minor  dif- 
ficulties attending  an  actual  advent  in  the 
island  of  Jamaica  it  is  no  doubt  well  to  turn  at  once 
to  a  brief  consideration  of  the  island  itself.  It  is, 
as  has  been  remarked  elsewhere,  a  sort  of  errant 
brother  of  the  Antilles,  which  has  strayed  out  of 
the  otherwise  fairly  regular  chain  of  the  archipelago 
and  taken  up  a  position  in  the  midst  of  the  Carib- 
bean. 

It  is  an  island  of  much  the  same  size  as  Porto 
Rico,  lying  ninety  miles  south  of  the  southern  end 
of  Cuba,  and  therefore  about  halfway  between 
Porto  Rico  and  the  Central  American  coast. 
"About  the  size  of  Porto  Rico"  means  that  it  is 
something  short  of  one  hundred  and  forty  miles 
long,  and  not  far  from  fifty  miles  wide. 

Lying  perhaps  eighteen  degrees  north  of  the 
Equator,  it  is  naturally  a  warm  spot;  but  as  the 
thoughtful  provisions  of  Nature  have  arranged  a 
fairly  constant  trade  wind,  it  is  a  very  tolerable 
sort  of  heat.  The  mendacious  official  records  which 
deal  with  the  insular  temperatures  ask  you  to  be- 


244  SAILING  SOUTH 

lieve  that  the  "maximum  for  ten  years  at  Kings- 
ton has  averaged  87.7°  F."  Maybe  it  has,  but  it 
feels  more  like  ninety-five  degrees  when  you  are 
there.  In  the  uplands  the  thermometer  hardly 
varies  at  all  throughout  the  year,  and  there  is  one 
place  where  they  say  it  moves  up  and  down 
through  a  range  of  only  nine  degrees.  I  believe  this. 
I  am  also  ready  to  believe  that  it  makes  little  dif- 
ference what  time  of  year  you  go  there  —  although 
I  met  the  vice-consul's  wife  one  day,  and  she  said 
that  in  June  it  was  a  great  deal  hotter  than  it  was 
at  Christmas,  just  as  at  home.  She  seemed  quite 
serious  about  it  because  she  had  to  be  there  usually 
throughout  the  summer. 

It  rains  in  Jamaica.  It  rains  more  in  some  places 
than  in  others.  For  instance  up  in  the  high  moun- 
tains —  which  are  about  as  high  as  Mount  Wash- 
ington —  it  averages  a  rainfall  yearly  of  something 
around  one  hundred  inches.  Down  in  Kingston, 
the  most  nearly  rainless  spot,  it  manages  to  pile  up 
forty-four  inches  in  a  year  —  which  is  n't  far  from 
our  normal  hereabouts,  I  think.  While  I  was  in 
Kingston  it  rained  a  good  share  of  the  whole  year's 
supply,  and  it  did  it  all  in  one  afternoon,  at  that. 
In  fact,  in  about  two  hours  of  that  afternoon.  These 
tropical  downpours  are  the  real  thing  when  they 
happen. 


NATIVE  HUT  NEAR  KINGSTON 


THE  ISLE  OF  SPRINGS  245 

Now,  Jamaica  represents,  I  suppose,  a  volcanic 
upheaval  in  the  midst  of  the  sea.  In  consequence 
it  has  a  very  fertile  soil;  and  equally  it  boasts 
abundant  hot  springs  and  frequent  earthquakes. 
We  had  an  earthquake  the  first  night  we  were 
there.  Katrina  said  there  must  be  somebody  under 
her  bed.  I  had  felt  the  same  way  about  it,  but  had 
just  wit  enough  to  say  it  was  probably  an  earth- 
quake, and  go  to  sleep  again.  It  was  only  a  little 
quake,  of  what  they  call  locally  the  "up-and-down" 
variety.  These  do  no  harm,  as  a  rule.  The  lateral 
kind,  when  they  occur,  manage  to  upset  things  very 
generally.  It  is  about  eighteen  years  since  the  last 
big  one,  which  mussed  up  Kingston  as  a  whole  and 
precipitated  the  unsavory  Sweatenham  incident,  of 
which  more  anon. 

The  other  natural  drawback  is  the  West  Indian 
hurricane,  of  which  they  get  only  a  few  bad  speci- 
mens during  a  decade  and  chiefly  in  the  autumn 
months,  to  the  serious  damage  of  the  banana  and 
cocoanut  trees. 

But  if  you  bar  earthquakes,  hurricanes,  and  tor- 
rential showers,  the  land  has  no  drawbacks  at  all. 
There  are  no  poisonous  reptiles  or  insects.  I  have 
not  heard  that  it  sports  the  tarantula.  Things  will 
grow  of  their  own  accord.  If  you  set  out  a  banana 
shoot,  it  springs  up  and  bears  you  a  fine  bunch  of 


246  SAILING  SOUTH 

bananas  in  about  ten  months.  You  don't  need  any 
heavy  clothes.  A  palmleaf  fan  and  an  umbrella 
would  suffice. 

The  island  is  really  a  mountain  that  breaks  the 
surface  of  the  ocean  and  soars  up  into  the  sky  about 
seven  thousand  feet  at  the  topmost  point.  It  has 
its  lower  points,  by  use  of  which  the  excellent 
roads  and  the  poor  local  railroad  manage  to  get 
across  the  island.  It  has  its  intervales  and  valleys  — 
some  of  them  very  curious  ones.  Made  as  it  is  of  a 
limestone  which  is  fairly  soluble  in  water,  and  being 
copiously  rained  upon,  the  surface  of  the  land  has 
been  eaten  into  enormous  potholes  which  they  call 
"cockpits"  —  sometimes  of  enormous  depth.  The 
whole  place  is  alive  with  springs  —  and  I  believe 
the  name  Jamaica  is  Indian  for  "Isle  of  Springs." 
There  are  loads  of  brawling  rivers,  navigable  only  in 
a  few  cases  by  bamboo  rafts.  And  the  rivers  have 
an  uncomfortable  way  of  disappearing  in  the  ground 
only  to  reappear  somewhere  else,  very  likely  on  the 
other  side  of  a  hill. 

The  island  is  better  wooded  than  Porto  Rico,  and 
yet  considering  its  location  in  about  the  same  lati- 
tude, the  trees  are  surprisingly  different.  The  royal 
palm  is  n't  native  in  Jamaica  at  all  —  but  there  is 
an  abundance  of  the  other  varieties  and  they  have 
the  pleasant  tropical  habit  of  growing  right  down 


THE  ISLE  OF  SPRINGS  247 

to  the  edge  of  the  sea,  very  much  as  if  they  thought 
it  a  mere  lake,  or  river.  The  cocoanut-palm  is 
everywhere.  So  is  the  handsome  pimento- tree, 
which  is  another  name  for  allspice.  The  books  say 
this  tree  grows  nowhere  else  —  at  least  not  natu- 
rally. There  are,  of  course,  bananas  till  you  can't 
rest.  Also  logwood,  mango,  breadfruit,  oranges, 
and  acacias.  But  you  miss  the  flamboyant  poin- 
cianas  of  Porto  Rico  with  their  flaming  color,  save 
when  you  venture  into  such  arboretums  as  the 
Hope  Gardens  near  Kingston,  or  the  huge  Castle- 
ton  preserve  nineteen  miles  out,  in  the  heart  of  the 
great  mountain  range  which  cuts  the  island  in 
twain  running  east  and  west.  But  you  will  hardly 
see  a  hill  so  precipitous  that  it  is  n't  cultivated 
right  up  to  its  top  —  sometimes  to  your  amazement 
because  it  looks  as  if  nobody  but  a  mountain  goat 
could  get  up  there.  Only  about  70,000,000  acres 
are  devoted  to  bananas  —  a  mere  bagatelle!  I 
don't  find  any  record  of  how  many  cocoanut  acres 
there  are,  but  I  think  they  told  me  that  something 
like  30,000,000  cocoanuts  were  shipped  out  last 
year.  As  you  ride  around  you  come  to  appreciate 
the  cocoanut.  It  grows  in  clusters,  at  the  top  of  a 
palm  that  looks  like  a  rather  dilapidated  feather- 
duster  we  once  had  to  dust  off  the  carriages  when  I 
was  a  boy  at  home. 


248  SAILING  SOUTH 

It  is  a  sin  to  steal  a  cocoanut.  It  is  so  much  of  a 
sin  that  any  negro  caught  at  it  will  be  sent  off  to 
jail  for  a  sizable  term.  This  probably  has  to  be 
done  in  order  to  impress  the  native  with  the  valid 
distinctions  between  Meum  and  Tuum  —  twin 
gods  for  whom  he  would  otherwise  have  small 
reverence.  But  if  you  can  get  a  native  to  shin  up  a 
tree  and  gather  you  a  lawful  cocoanut,  it  is  worth 
seeing  done;  and  if  it  is  a  green  cocoanut,  he  will 
chip  off  the  top  and  give  you  a  drink  that  reconciles 
you  to  thirst  in  order  to  repeat  the  dose.  Cocoanut 
water  is  a  somewhat  overrated  beverage  in  my 
judgment  —  it  certainly  does  not  compare  for  se- 
ductiveness with  the  planter's  punch;  but  it  is 
mildly  sweet,  always  cool,  and  very  refreshing  in  its 
ladylike  way. 

The  cocoanut-palms  are  all  numbered,  when  cul- 
tivated. This,  they  told  us,  is  for  insurance  pur- 
poses. The  insurance  is  against  the  hurricanes, 
which,  when  they  come,  usually  bend  these  great 
trees  like  whiplashes  and  generally  lay  them  flat. 
Inasmuch  as  it  takes  cocoanut-trees  about  as  long 
as  it  takes  a  human  being  to  arrive  at  the  age  of  re- 
productiveness,  it  is  no  light  matter  to  lose  a  lot  of 
them  in  a  storm. 

Jamaica  dawned  on  the  consciousness  of  civili- 
zation about  the  time  of  Columbus,  of  course.  He  is 


THE  ISLE  OF  SPRINGS  249 

supposed  to  have  touched  there  on  one  of  his  voy- 
ages, as  he  is  alleged  to  have  touched  at  about 
every  island  in  the  Antilles.  The  Spaniards  nat- 
urally took  over  the  place,  and  their  actual  occu- 
pation began  in  1509.  They  only  lasted  until  1665, 
however,  when  a  British  admiral  sailed  in  and  cap- 
tured the  island.  Even  during  their  one  hundred 
and  fifty  years  the  Spaniards  had  n't  bothered 
much  about  it,  being  concerned  for  gold  of  which 
Jamaica  offered  none.  There  were  only  three 
thousand  inhabitants  there  when  the  English  took 
it.  At  the  present  time  it  has  about  a  million  people 
—  five  sixths  of  them  colored  and  virtually  devoid  of 
any  voice  whatever  in  the  government.  Some  Bol- 
shevik will  probably  start  them  to  thinking  they 
ought  to  vote  —  which  will  be  a  pity  because  they 
are  as  happy  as  clams  now,  and  they  won't  be  then. 
Why  can't  Bolsheviki  let  happy  people  alone? 

Spanish  traces  are  very  few.  Montego  Bay,  a  re- 
mote resort,  is  a  name  derived  from  Manteca  Bay; 
and  manteca  is  Spanish  for  butter,  or  lard.  I  forget 
just  why  they  called  it  that,  but  there  was  a  reason. 
"Bog  Walk,"  which  isn't  at  all  what  its  name 
suggests,  is  derived  from  Boca  del  Agua  (Mouth  of 
the  River),  but  that  fact  bothers  no  one  at  all. 
Spanish  Town,  a  hamlet  some  fifteen  miles  out  of 
Kingston,  is  n't  Spanish  any  more. 


250  SAILING  SOUTH 

In  the  course  of  past  centuries  the  island  was 
flooded  with  slaves,  from  whom  spring  the  present 
vast  negro  population.  They  were  emancipated  in 
1834:  so  you  see  the  British  beat  us  to  it;  and, 
furthermore,  the  owners  of  the  slaves  were  com- 
pensated for  the  "property"  they  lost  —  which 
also  surpassed  our  method  in  some  respects.  But 
the  landlords  were  none  the  less  disgusted  and  got 
out  of  the  island  in  huge  numbers,  so  that  it  has 
taken  a  long  time  to  get  business  rehabilitated.  It's 
fine  now,  though. 

By  the  way,  Canon  Ripley  of  the  First  Parish 
Church  told  me  this  yarn:  The  Dutch  originally 
occupied  Manhattan  Island  and  the  British  had 
great  South  American  possessions  in  Guiana.  Being 
alert  for  the  main  chance,  some  British  statesmen 
offered  to  swap  a  section  of  Guiana  for  the  island 
on  which  then  stood  Nieuw  Amsterdam.  The 
Dutch,  being  stolidly  unforseeing,  said  it  was  a 
go  —  and  thus  potential  New  York  passed  into 
British  hands  in  exchange  for  Dutch  Guiana.  The 
Englishmen  living  in  Guiana  chose  not  to  live  under 
Dutch  control  and  emigrated  to  Jamaica,  which  was 
already  a  British  possession.  "Therefore,"  said  the 
canon  .with  a  twinkle,  "we  are  always  glad  to  see 
people  from  New  York." 

Even  now,  I  take  it,  the  British  do  not  greatly 


THE  ISLE  OF  SPRINGS  251 

esteem  Jamaica.  It  has  its  most  important  trade 
relations  with  America,  which  takes  about  sixty 
per  cent  of  its  products,  leaving  less  than  thirty 
per  cent  in  actuality  to  be  swallowed  by  Britain  after 
other  traders  have  taken  what  they  want.  Americans 
have  moved  in  and  preempted  the  land  —  largely 
in  the  form  of  plantations  devoted  to  the  United 
Fruit  Company.  The  British  who  used  to  come  out 
to  Jamaica  for  the  winter  have  discovered  that  this 
Americanization  has  hit  the  hotels  —  the  big  ones 
naturally  charge  American  prices;  and  as  a  result 
there  is  wailing  because  it  costs  so  much  to  winter  in 
the  warmth.  There  is  need  of  some  cheaper  hotels, 
and  a  few  are  springing  up,  even  in  the  environs  of 
Kingston,  as  one  result  of  the  close  of  the  war. 

Calamitous  visitations  of  quake  and  whirlwind 
have  had  their  effect  on  the  island.  Port  Royal,  the 
original  chief  port  —  which  lay  at  the  end  of  the 
long  sand  spit  which  makes  the  huge  harbor  of  mod- 
ern Kingston  —  was  "swallowed  up"  in  a  quake  in 
1692.  In  reality  it  only  slid  off  into  the  sea,  being 
built  on  a  bit  of  sand  which  had  stuck  to  the  basic 
rocks,  but  which  was  dislodged  when  the  earth 
began  to  heave.  In  1712  and  again  in  1722  tornadoes 
swept  the  bulk  of  the  Port  Royal  plantations  flat 
and  a  great  fire  in  1815  obliterated  what  was  left  of 
the  former  capital  on  the  point. 


252  SAILING  SOUTH 

The  last  great  hurricane  was  in  1903,  and  the 
last  big  quake  in  1907  —  the  one  that  destroyed 
Kingston  and  led  to  the  unsavory  interlude  of  the 
Sweatenham  incident  before  referred  to.  Sweaten- 
ham  was  the  royal  governor. 

•  Immediately  after  the  quake,  being  on  a  cruise  in 
that  vicinity  and  learning  that  there  was  trouble 
ashore,  a  gallant  Yankee  admiral  with  his  squadron 
and  a  force  of  marines  hurried  into  Kingston  and 
sought  to  render  first  aid.  Without  waiting  for  any 
red  tape  he  landed  his  marines,  helped  put  out  the 
fire  which  was  raging,  undertook  to  assist  the  local 
police,  put  down  a  rebellion  among  the  prisoners  in 
the  penitentiary,  and  in  various  ways  sought  to  be 
neighborly  and  helpful  —  assuming,  of  course,  that 
the  governor  would  be  very  glad  to  have  assistance. 

The  governor  proved  not  to  be  grateful  at  all. 
His  thanks  took  the  form  of  an  order  to  the  admiral 
to  take  his  marines  out  of  the  island  forthwith  and 
keep  them  out.  He  backed  this  with  a  letter,  which 
I  think  for  sheer  studied  insolence,  beats  anything  I 
ever  read  in  official  correspondence.  The  people  of 
Kingston  protested  and  begged  the  admiral  not  to 
go.  He  said  he  simply  could  n't  stay,  after  being 
ordered  out  by  the  authorities,  and  went. 

But  the  matter  did  not  end  there.  It  was  brought 
to  the  attention  of  the  British  Foreign  Office,  which 


THE  ISLE  OF  SPRINGS  253 

demanded  an  immediate  explanation  and  apology 
from  Sweatenham.  He  filed  a  perfunctory  apology 
to  Admiral  Davis  —  and  resigned.  His  resignation 
was  accepted.  He  is  still  living  in  Jamaica  —  which 
must  take  rather  a  thick  skin;  but  you  will  find 
opinion  divided  concerning  him,  and  some,  es- 
pecially of  British  allegiance,  still  insist  that  he  was 
a  much-maligned  man. 

I  met  a  lady  who  had  been  in  Kingston  on  the 
fearful  night  of  that  earthquake.  She  and  her  father 
were  staying  at  the  old  Myrtle  Bank  Hotel  and  were 
in  their  rooms.  Without  warning  the  floors  began  to 
heave  and  the  walls  suddenly  fell  outward.  Those 
who  remained  in  the  hotel  were  saved,  because  the 
partitions  and  floors  held  fast.  Those  who  ran  into 
the  street  were  killed  by  the  crashing  of  the  walls. 
My  friend  and  her  father  managed  to  climb  down 
over  the  debris;  and  the  father,  an  old  sea-captain 
with  a  sailor's  natural  instinct  said  at  once  that  they 
must  make  for  the  water.  They  ran  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  harbor,  found  a  boat,  and  pulled  out  on 
the  bosom  of  the  deep —  "Because,"  explained  the 
captain,  "this  town  is  going  to  burn!"  It  did  burn. 
The  fire  and  the  quake  together  destroyed  one 
thousand  lives  and  $10,000,000  worth  of  property. 
Kingston  still  shows  the  scars. 

It  was  next  day  when  the  American  admiral  with 


254  SAILING  SOUTH 

his  marines  arrived  and  plunged  unbidden  into  the 
work  of  helping  the  afflicted.  What  they  did  was  no 
doubt  needful,  and  without  them  it  would  not  have 
been  done  so  promptly.  But  the  governor  and  the 
more  testy  brand  of  British  resident  resented  the 
possibility  that  these  interlopers  "would  say  they 
had  saved  a  situation,"  and  for  that  scruple  they 
ordered  them  out  with  not  so  much  as  a  thank-you, 
but  with  what  looked  much  more  like  a  churlish 
rebuff.  I  suppose  Sweatenham  is  only  waiting  to  see 
another  quake  and  find  out  what  happens  next  time! 
Jamaica  sent  over  fifteen  thousand  men  to  the 
Great  War.  There  are  naturally  also  troops  quar- 
tered in  the  island,  although  you  see  nothing  of 
them.  The  white  soldiers  are  stationed  at  an  im- 
possible-looking town  on  the  tip  of  a  mountain 
which  you  can  see  from  Kingston  —  a  town  which 
you  can  motor  up  to  if  your  nerve  is  good,  although 
those  who  have  tried  it  usually  say  that  they  would 
not  make  the  trip  again  for  a  million  dollars.  The 
climate  up  there  is  better  for  white  men  than  that  of 
the  plains,  and  this  probably  compensates  for  the 
dangers  of  the  jaunt.  Besides,  soldiers  ought  to  be 
brave  men,  anyhow,  and  the  journey  up  to  New- 
castle is  calculated  to  make  any  one  brave  if  the 
tales  are  true.  The  negro  troops  live  happily  in  a 
camp  down  below,  which  is  quite  easy  of  access. 


THE  ISLE  OF  SPRINGS  255 

Katrina,  in  her  capacity  of  censor,  says  she  thinks  I 
have  not  been  sufficiently  enthusiastic  about  Kings- 
ton. I  don't  talk  as  if  I  wanted  to  go  back  there. 
Bless  you,  if  that's  the  way  it  sounds  I  am  sorry. 
All  I  mean  to  imply  is  that  of  all  the  places  I  saw  in 
Jamaica,  Kingston  struck  me  as  the  least  delightful, 
either  for  situation  or  for  climate.  But  when  you 
come  to  that,  it  is  a  matter  of  degrees  of  delight.  All 
Jamaica  is  good,  but  some  parts  are  better  than 
others  —  to  paraphrase  the  Kentuckian's  verdict  on 
whiskey  of  which  you  have  heard. 


CHAPTER- XVII 
A  JAMAICAN  MOTOR  FLIGHT 

WHEN  you  are  in  Jamaica  it  is  the  thing  to  do 
what  the  Jamaicans  don't  do  —  to  wit,  hire  a 
motor.  The  reason  the  Jamaicans  do  not  do  this  is 
largely  the  expense. 

Gasoline  at  a  dollar  the  gallon  is  not  conducive  to 
frequent  joy-riding  through  the  steep  and  curving 
grades  of  the  mountain  highways  —  which  is  a 
mercy.  In  fact  you  may  drive  all  day  and  hardly 
meet  two  cars  on  the  road.  When  you  do,  you  will 
discover  that  although  the  rule  is  to  "meet  to  the 
left  and  pass  on  the  right,"  the  drivers  ordinarily 
hug  the  wrong  side  of  the  road  and  make  both  meet- 
ing and  passing  a  source  of  abundant  thrills. 

Tradition  says  you  should  not  hire  a  local  native 
for  your  driver,  because  when  the  local  native  does 
get  behind  a  wheel  and  has  some  one  else  to  pay  for 
the  gas  he  cuts  loose  and  becomes  a  speed-hound. 
But  as  you  prospect  around  for  a  car  in  which  to 
tour  the  island  you  will  speedily  discover  that  none 
but  local  drivers  of  a  dusky  hue  are  to  be  had.  You 
therefore  insist  upon  being  given  a  careful  one  — 
and  you  find  that  they  are  all  (on  their  own  tell)  the 


A  JAMAICAN  MOTOR  FLIGHT       257 

most  careful  drivers  known  to  motordom.  It  is 
possible  to  make  an  arrangement  with  a  genial  per- 
son of  Celtic  extraction  who  operates  a  garage  across 
the  way  from  the  Myrtle  Bank  Hotel,  for  any  num- 
ber of  days  you  choose,  at  a  stipulated  mileage  rate, 
and  including  board  for  chauffeur,  purchase  of 
gasoline,  etc.,  which  is  not  on  the  whole  ruinous. 
Which  done,  you  await  the  day  of  departure,  com- 
mending your  soul  to  Heaven,  and  your  estate  to 
your  heirs,  executors,  administrators,  and  assigns. 

I  stipulated  for  a  Buick,  because  I  thought  if 
anything  happened  to  the  driver  I  could  manage 
to  navigate  the  craft  myself.  It  turned  out  that  I 
did  n't  need  to ;  but  you  never  can  tell.  The  machine 
appeared  in  the  porte  coch&re  promptly  at  nine  in  the 
morning,  as  agreed;  and  barring  a  certain  flavor 
of  mild  decay  due  to  its  early  vintage  it  looked 
amply  sufficient  for  Katrina  and  me.  A  nonchalant 
young  man,  of  the  cafS  au  lait  complexion  common  in 
those  parts,  sat  at  the  wheel  —  a  soft-eyed,  soft- 
spoken  youth  who  said  that  I  might,  if  I  liked,  call 
him  Millard.  I  called  him  that  for  an  hour  or  two. 
Thereafter  he  was  referred  to  in  the  family  circle  as 
"Young  Nuisance."  He  liked  to  drive,  and  he  knew 
how  to  hand,  reef,  and  steer  passably  —  but  not 
much  more.  His  delight  was  in  the  open  cut-out, 
and  it  was  only  by  an  occasional  admonitory  punch 


258  SAILING  SOUTH 

in  the  back  that  I  got  him  to  close  the  muffler  on 
level  stretches  or  in  going  down  hill.  On  the  up- 
grade he  opened  her  wide,  and  the  snort  of  the  ex- 
haust was  to  his  ear  as  delectable  as  the  music  of  the 
spheres.  He  insisted  that  this  was  necessary. 

He  revealed  also  an  artistic  temperament  in  the 
use  of  the  horn.  On  dangerous  corners  he  omitted  to 
sound  it,  apparently  being  more  interested  in  getting 
around  the  curve.  But  on  the  open  road  where  one 
could  see  ahead  for  a  mile  or  two  he  waked  the 
echoes  of  the  glen  with  warning  toots,  until  Katrina 
and  I  were  reduced  to  something  approaching  an 
apoplectic  rage.  All  these  peculiarities  we  learned 
before  we  had  made  Spanish  Town  —  a  hamlet  lying 
a  dozen  miles  or  less  from  the  capital  city. 

Spanish  Town  is  notable  chiefly  for  its  narrow 
streets  with  their  quaint  houses,  a  huge  penitentiary, 
and  a  very  old  church.  The  huddled  houses  appear 
to  remind  every  American  visitor  of  some  town  at 
home  —  all  different.  One  lady  told  me  it  was  like 
Williamsburg.  To  me  it  recalled  Provincetown  and 
Marblehead  with  a  dash  of  Gloucester.  As  for  the 
old  cathedral,  now  of  course  Church-of-England,  it 
was  a  delight.  A  moss-grown  old  negro  showed  us 
over  it,  explained  the  points  of  interest,  pointed  out 
the  ancient  tombs,  accepted  the  customary  gratuity, 
and  bowed  us  out.  The  church  was  the  first  thing  in 


OLD  CATHEDRAL  AT  SPANISH  TOWN,  JAMAICA 


A  JAMAICAN  MOTOR  FLIGHT       259 

all  Jamaica,  aside  from  the  everlasting  hills,  that  had 
seemed  at  all  permanent. 

Thence  we  proceeded  many  parasangs  westward, 
passing  on  the  way  through  Bushy  Park  where  the 
dairy  is,  and  pushed  on  toward  the  remote  mountain 
hamlet  of  Mandeville.  The  road  which  had  been 
dusty  and  rough  began  to  improve.  We  crossed  and 
recrossed  the  primitive  railroad,  rumbled  through 
towns,  quaintly  named  May  Pen  and  Porus,  and 
finally  began  to  climb.  The  dust  of  Kingston  was 
forgotten.  The  excessive  heat  of  summer  gave  place 
to  the  balmy  airs  of  jocund  May.  It  had  rained 
recently  and  the  dust  was  washed  from  the  wayside 
trees.  Ever  and  anon  stalwart  negresses  marched 
by,  with  that  stately  carriage  acquired  by  the  bear- 
ing of  burdens  on  the  head.  Never  have  I  seen  more 
queenly  figures  than  these  wayside  women  —  straight 
as  arrows,  sedate  in  movement,  majestic  in  every 
way  —  often  very  handsome  in  the  negroid  style. 
From  such  as  bore  deckloads  of  fruit  we  bought 
sustenance  for  a  song,  which  we  shared  with  Young 
Nuisance  —  i.e.,  bananas  and  star  apples.  The 
latter  we  prized  chiefly  for  their  decorative  quality. 
As  fruit,  the  star  apple  is  n't  much.  If  you  cut  it 
equatorially,  you  can  see  the  inward  star  which  gives 
it  the  name.  If  you  cut  it  longitudinally  you  avoid 
trouble  with  the  seeds.  Its  taste  is  sickish  sweet,  and 


260  SAILING  SOUTH 

a  gelatinous  semi-fluid  in  its  midst  makes  it  other- 
wise than  appetizing  to  the  untutored.  But  the 
bananas  and  the  tangerines,  which  you  can  get  al- 
most anywhere  as  you  ride  along,  are  food  for  the 
gods  in  very  truth. 

I  soon  learned  by  inquiry,  what  I  had  shrewdly 
suspected  from  the  first,  that  Young  Nuisance 
was  n't  a  very  experienced  driver  in  the  matter  of 
insular  geography.  In  common  with  most  chauffeurs 
he  lacked  the  so-called  "bump  of  locality."  Driving 
around  Kingston  was  one  thing,  but  a  voyage  of 
discovery  to  quarters  sixty  or  one  hundred  miles 
remote  was  something  else  again.  Young  Nuisance 
was  not  much  over  sixteen.  He  claimed  that  he  had 
been  to  Mandeville  within  living  memory,  but  I 
noticed  he  had  to  inquire  the  road.  Therefore,  when 
I  probed  him  and  found  that  he  had  no  conception 
of  how  to  get  from  there  to  Moneague,  where  we 
proposed  to  spend  the  night,  my  heart  took  a  trip  to 
the  bottom  of  my  shoes.  I  did  n't  know  the  way 
myself,  and  it  was  a  long  ride  at  best  through  moun- 
tains many  and  great.  Young  Nuisance  was  sure  of 
only  one  thing  —  and  that  was  that  it  "could  n't  be 
done." 

Of  course  the  right  thing  to  do  was  to  stay  in 
Mandeville  —  which  course  was  impossible  only 
because  there  was  no  room  for  us  in  the  inn.  Owing 


JAMAICAN  MOTOR  FLIGHT       261 

to  the  American  prices  prevailing  in  Kingston, 
economical  Britishers  in  great  number  had  hied 
themselves  to  the  hills  from  whence  cometh  low- 
priced  and  very  admirable  accommodation.  Man- 
deville,  which  has  three  small  hotels  at  reasonable 
rates  and  which  boasts  a  most  delightful  climate  of 
perpetual  spring,  was  full  to  overflowing.  We  might 
lunch — but  remain  we  could  not.  And  Moneague  lay 
seventy  good  miles  away,  through  a  devious  country 
of  which  Young  Nuisance  was  as  ignorant  as  was  I. 
However,  the  very  agreeable  and  very  blond  Eng- 
lishman who  kept  the  Mandeville  Hotel  took  a  map 
and  labored  to  show  me  the  way.  He  said  that  if  my 
driver  was  of  reasonable  intelligence  — 

"Say  no  more,"  said  I  hastily.  "He  is  n't." 
So  he  and  I  husked  out  the  route  together  and 
I  noted  it  on  my  cuff.  Meanwhile  Young  Nuisance 
drove  merrily  away  in  quest  of  his  food,  disclaiming 
any  need  of  procuring  gas  for  the  car.  For  this  we 
had  abundant  reason  to  curse  him  later,  because  no 
one  in  Jamaica  ever  neglects  a  chance  to  refill  his 
fuel  tanks,  if  he  be  wise.  There's  no  certainty  that 
you  '11  find  any  gas  at  the  next  town.  It  is  very  un- 
likely that  you  will.  Therefore  you  buy  whatever 
you  can  get  as  you  go  along,  whether  in  real  need  of 
it  or  not.  The  time  will  come  when  you  are  glad  you 
did  it. 


262  SAILING  SOUTH 

We  lunched  in  great  comfort  at  Mandeville,  but 
not  over-well.  The  hotel  was  a  quaint,  rambling 
affair,  all  ups  and  downs,  with  huge  verandas  on 
which  all  the  bedrooms  opened.  I  think  I  should  en- 
joy staying  there  some  day.  The  village  itself  was 
no  less  quaint,  and  spread  itself  over  a  little  hollow 
in  the  midst  of  towering  hills.  A  vast  courthouse 
indicated  that  law  and  order  were  insisted  upon. 
A  decidedly  knowing-looking  hospital  argued  for 
the  care  of  public  health.  But  the  great  charm  was 
of  tropic  nature  all  around  —  nature  at  its  level 
best. 

Map  in  hand,  and  with  copious  notes  under  my 
eye  as  sailing  master  solely  responsible  for  passengers 
and  crew,  we  whirled  away  in  the  early  afternoon. 
Millard  was  still  pretty  sure  we  should  never  make 
Moneague.  He  knew  of  the  place,  it  seemed,  but  to 
his  mind  it  lay  at  the  antipodes  and  on  a  quite 
different  road.  Jockeying  along  through  mountain 
ranges,  always  up  and  then  ever  down  again,  wast- 
ing precious  gas  on  interminable  stretches  of  low- 
gear,  and  apparently  as  far  as  ever  from  the  goal, 
told  on  his  perturbed  spirit.  The  horn  providen- 
tially gave  out,  owing  to  a  broken  wire.  Even  the 
cut-out  lost  its  charm.  We  pounded  painfully 
through  a  list  of  unknown  and  unknowable  villages 
situated  at  vast  intervals.  It  seemed  that  Katrina 


A  JAMAICAN  MOTOR  FLIGHT       263 

really  enjoyed  the  ride.  She  was  n't  on  the  bridge, 
so  to  speak,  and  her  delight  over  the  grandeur  of 
mountain  and  verdure  was  perpetually  ebullient. 
It  was  indeed  magnificent,  when  one  could  give  one's 
mind  to  it.  The  mountains  of  the  island  are  both 
high  and  bold.  They  are  wooded  almost  to  their 
tops  with  tropic  trees.  The  road  winds  in  sweeping 
curves  over  spurs  and  down  through  cavernous 
vales.  Everywhere  was  a  smiling  greenery,  and 
overhead  a  blue  sky  —  save  where  to  my  apprehen- 
sive view  a  gathering  of  cloud  presaged  another 
torrential  shower  for  our  later  discomfiture.  On 
the  trees  hung  innumerable  orchids.  On  no  account 
go  to  Jamaica  without  doing  the  trip  from  Mande- 
ville  northward  to  Brownstown,  and  thence  onward 
to  St.  Ann,  or  to  Moneague.  It  is  worth  the  journey 
down  to  the  island,  if  you  do  naught  else.  Even  I, 
preoccupied  with  the  work  of  pathfinding,  could  see 
the  beauty  of  the  ride. 

On  the  way  you  climb  out  of  one  watershed  and 
into  another.  As  that  in  turn  proves  profitless  you 
climb  once  more  and  descend  to  a  brawling  river 
which  gives  a  practicable  route  to  the  northern 
coast.  Once  we  got  over  the  second  rise  Young 
Nuisance  brightened.  "  Here,  sah !  I  been  here  befo'. 
Here's  where  I  bought  some  gas!"  I  forget  the 
name  of  the  hamlet;  but  it  was  a  beautiful  spot, 


264  SAILING  SOUTH 

notable  for  much  else  besides  the  fact  that  here 
on  some  previous  occasion  Millard  had  refilled  his 
depleted  tanks.  He  lost  all  consciousness  of  the  road 
again  shortly  after,  but  by  dint  of  keeping  in  the 
way  directed  we  made  Brownstown  late  in  the  after- 
noon and  made  diligent  inquiry  as  to  directions 
thence.  They  said  it  was  all  right.  Just  keep  on 
going.  Millard,  who  was  beginning  to  appreciate 
the  gas  problem,  inquired  also  for  fuel.  They  said 
there  was  n't  any  in  town.  Oh,  well!  who  cared? 

We  knew  too  much  to  ask  for  the  road  to  Mon- 
eague.  You  might  as  well  inquire  the  road  to  Baby- 
lon, or  Tewksbury.  The  native  knows  the  name  of 
the  next  town,  perhaps,  but  beyond  that  he  has  n't 
usually  heard.  However,  the  Blond  Man  of  Mande- 
ville  had  given  me  a  choice  list  of  odd  burgs  along 
the  way,  including  such  peculiar  spots  as  Excellent 
Town  and  Good  Design.  We  whirled  away  around 
a  corner  and  into  more  mountains,  just  as  the  rain 
which  had  hung  off  all  the  afternoon  began  to  fall. 

I  think  even  Katrina  was  depressed  by  now.  The 
road  did  n't  look  as  if  it  could  be  the  right  one.  It 
had  ribbons  of  grass  down  its  midst  and  certainly 
did  n't  look  like  a  main  highway.  Eventually  we  got 
up  into  the  clouds  and  wandered  along  interminably 
on  a  shelf  of  the  mountain.  A  young  donkey  got 
ahead  of  us  and  ran  as  fast  as  he  could  go,  unable 


A  JAMAICAN  MOTOR  FLIGHT       265 

to  find  any  breach  in  the  wall  of  green  along  the 
roadside  through  which  to  escape.  But  in  an  hour 
or  so  we  came  to  a  tiny  collection  of  houses  —  a  vil- 
lage of  sorts  —  and  inquired  of  the  local  grocery, 
"licensed  to  sell  brandy,  gin,  and  agricultural  im- 
plements," what  place  this  might  be. 

"Dis  here  town,  sah,  am  Bamboo." 

Ah,  good!  We  were  all  right  after  all. 

"This  the  way  to  Claremont?" 

"Yassah.  Claremont  eight  mile,  Moneague  thir- 
teen!" 

Now  that  was  something  like !  Katrina  and  I  be- 
came gay  again.  So  also  did  Young  Nuisance  — 
who  had  repaired  his  horn  and  woke  the  echoes 
afresh.  The  rain  ceased.  The  waning  sun  cast  a 
benediction  over  a  washed  and  wakened  nature.  So 
on  we  sped  through  hills  of  an  ever-increasing  stu- 
pendousness,  racing  against  the  advancing  dusk. 
At  last  it  was  down,  down,  down,  and  then  around  a 
long  curve  toward  a  hillock,  set  like  the  boss  of  an 
inverted  shield,  the  top  of  which  was  crowned  with 
our  desired  haven.  It  was  the  Moneague  Hotel;  and 
the  proprietor  announced  that  he  was  expecting  us. 
Our  good  friend  in  Kingston,  Mr.  K.,  had  been  as 
good  as  his  word.  He  had  telegraphed,  and  we  were 
safe. 

Young  Nuisance  proclaimed  that  he  had  half  a 


266  SAILING  SOUTH 

tank  left.  He  said  he  would  surely  refill  it  during  the 
night. 

I  had  at  Moneague  my  first  real  night's  sleep  since 
reaching  the  tropics.  It  was  deathly  still  up  there. 
No  roosters  woke  the  midnight.  No  quarreling 
natives  disturbed  the  early  dawn.  It  was  even  cold 
enough  for  one  blanket.  Twelve  hours  was  my 
record  that  night;  and  the  cares  that  had  infested 
the  day  did  the  proper  and  traditional  thing.  They 
folded  their  tents  like  the  Arabs  and  silently  stole 
away. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
THE  NORTH  COAST 

YOUNG  NUISANCE,  otherwise  Millard,  pre- 
sented himself  on  the  following  morning  —  a 
fine  dewy  morning  in  March,  at  the  portals  of  the 
Hotel  Moneague. 

He  regretted  to  report  one  flat  tire,  which  he  en- 
gaged to  repair  in  the  course  of  an  hour.  Also  he 
regretted  to  state  that  there  was  no  gasoline  to  be 
had  in  that  upland  resort.  He  insisted,  however, 
that  there  was  still  enough  fuel  in  the  tanks  to  get 
us  to  the  town  of  St.  Ann's  Bay,  at  which  point  he 
was  positive  we  could  refill. 

I  was  still  new  in  Jamaica,  and  believed. 

Therefore  we  sat  down  to  contemplate  the  un- 
dulations of  a  near-by  mountain  range.  A  bright 
forenoon  sun  dispelled  the  coolness  of  the  mountain 
morning.  There  could  be  no  need  of  haste,  for  St. 
Ann  lay  only  about  twenty  miles  away  —  and  that 
distance,  especially  when  it  is  nearly  all  downhill, 
requires  but  little  time  and  little  "gas."  In  fact  it  is 
more  a  matter  of  brake-linings  than  anything  else, 
and  less  a  problem  of  locomotion  than  of  holding 
back. 


268  SAILING  SOUTH 

I  would  say  a  good  word  for  Moneague  in  passing. 
I  suspect  that  there  is  a  town  of  that  name,  although 
I  have  not  seen  it.  There  is  certainly  a  very  eligible, 
if  somewhat  primitive,  hostelry  remote  from  the 
actual  village  on  the  top  of  a  low  and  conical  hill, 
where  they  "do  you  very  well"  as  the  British  mis- 
leadingly  put  it,  at  a  very  moderate  charge.  If  you 
ever  go  to  Jamaica  and  get  tired  —  as  you  will  —  of 
the  heat  and  dust  of  Kingston,  get  thee  to  Moneague 
and  there  abide!  You  will  find  it  pleasantly  warm 
by  day  and  deliciously  cool  o'  nights.  You  will  be 
simply  but  sufficiently  fed.  You  will  not  be  rained 
upon  overmuch.  You  will  be  within,  say,  fifteen 
miles  of  the  northern  coasts,  which  can  be  reached  by 
a  most  charming  road.  And  you  can  take  a  run  down 
there  to  bathe  and  come  back  easily  for  lunch. 
There  is  no  railroad  within  a  dozen  miles. 

Young  Nuisance  came  to  time  as  per  agreement  in 
due  course,  and  after  preliminary  inquiries  designed 
to  eke  out  his  infantile  ignorance  of  local  geography, 
we  took  the  road  —  coasting  gently  down  a  series  of 
sweeping  curves  and  mounting  swiftly  an  adjacent 
ridge  —  from  whence  the  descent,  like  that  to  Aver- 
nus,  was  said  to  be  facile.  It  was  even  so.  As  we 
drew  near  the  coast  the  road  took  a  headlong  plunge 
of  three  miles  or  thereabouts,  down  and  ever  down- 
ward, through  caverns  seemingly  measureless  to 


THE  NORTH  COAST  269 

man,  the  sides  of  which  were  covered  with  ferns  of 
most  stupendous  size  and  endless  variety.  Not  the 
least  interesting  of  Jamaican  flora  are  the  varieties 
of  fern.  They  embrace  innumerable  species.  Your 
driver,  whatever  else  he  may  not  know,  is  anxious 
to  show  you  his  knowledge  of  such  things  as  these. 

"See,  Missy!  Silver  fern!  Wait!  I  get  him  for 
yo'."  And  forthwith  he  jams  on  his  emergency 
brake,  vanishes  over  the  side,  and  disappears  in  the 
undergrowth.  Shortly  he  emerges  with  a  few  fern 
leaves,  which  you  lay  on  the  back  of  your  hand  and 
then  administer  a  smart  blow.  Behold!  An  exact 
reproduction  of  every  frond  remains  outlined  in 
silver  on  your  sunburned  flesh.  Or  maybe  in  gold,  if 
it's  a  gold  fern.  And  as  for  sensitive  plant  —  what 
they  call  locally  '"Shamed  of  you"  —  it  is  every- 
where. Touch  it  and  it  shivers  and  shrivels  into  it- 
self, for  all  the  world  as  if  alive  and  very  much 
frightened,  thus  to  remain  for  about  ten  minutes 
by  the  watch.  Then  it  plucks  up  heart  and  opens 
again. 

The  drive  down  to  the  sea,  at  a  place  still  bearing 
the  name  of  Ochos  Rios  (Eight  Rivers)  for  some 
reason  which  we  did  not  discover,  is  known  some- 
what unpoetically  as  the  "Fern  Gully  Ride."  I 
never  fancied  the  word  "gully."  To  me,  it  means  a 
bleak  and  stony  ravine,  quite  different  from  this 


270  SAILING  SOUTH 

opulent  fern-clad  abyss,  from  the  bottom  of  which  we 
could  hardly  see  the  sun. 

We  ground  our  way  down  through  the  verdant 
gloom  of  that  cleft  in  the  primordial  rocks,  pausing 
prudently  after  a  time  to  let  the  brakes  cool  suf- 
ficiently to  save  them,  and  always  exclaiming  at 
the  beauty  of  the  environment,  which  was  notable 
alike  for  its  ferns,  its  depth  of  shadow,  and  its 
precipitous  walls  which  vanished  somewhere  above 
into  an  unguessed  heaven  of  tropical  trees. 

Then  almost  without  warning  we  emerged  from 
the  gulf  of  ferns,  and  lo,  there  was  the  sea  beating 
in  long,  regular  rollers  on  the  palm-clad  beach.  A 
brawling  stream,  doubtless  one  of  the  eight,  dashed 
out  of  the  jungle  and  with  one  exulting,  joyous 
bound  leaped  into  the  arms  of  Ocean.  East  and 
west  under  the  palms  stretched  the  white  road  that 
circles  the  island.  Inland,  the  cliffs  rose  boldly. 

You  will  be  enchanted  with  the  view,  if  you  go 
thither,  and  especially  with  the  confiding  way  in 
which  the  palm-trees  come  right  down  to  the 
water's  edge,  like  unto  the  trees  of  Chargogagog- 
manchaugagogchaubunagungamaug.  They  act  as 
if  it  was  n't  the  ocean  at  all,  but  a  river.  And  yet 
there  come  occasional  breakers  that  dash  a  salty 
foam  clear  over  the  road. 

We  turned  westward,  questing  St.  Ann.   On  so 


THE  NORTH  COAST  271 

bold  a  shore  the  highway  winds  and  winds,  always 
close  to  the  water,  but  traversing  deep  coves  and 
making  out  to  the  very  end  of  narrow  capes.  Mil- 
lard  revealed  a  propensity  to  speed  and  had  to  be 
admonished  by  Katrina,  whose  sunshade  played  a 
gentle  tattoo  on  his  youthful  shoulders.  You  see 
you  might  meet  another  car  on  those  narrow  curves 

—  or  more  likely  a  big  truck  loaded  with  the  omni- 
present banana  —  or  more  probably  still,  the  na- 
tive cart,  dawdling  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  way, 
may  greet  you  as  you  whirl  into  the  midst  of  a 
squawking  and  panicky  populace.    Native  drivers 
have  to  be  firmly  and  persistently  quelled  —  and  at 
this  form  of  pastime  we  have  learned  to  be  most 
expert.    Even  then  you  have  solved  only  half  the 
problem  —  for  it  is  of  little  avail  to  be  careful  your- 
self if  the  other  fellow  happens  not  to  be  careful  too, 
and  those  roads  are  f  earsomely  crooked  and  terribly 
strait  and  narrow. 

Dun's  River  —  sometimes  called  Dungeon  River 

—  pours  likewise  out  of  a  depth  of  jungle,  roars 
under  the  road,  and  then  drops  a  sheer  thirty  feet 
to  a  pleasantly  shaded  beach.  Here  is  the  bather's 
paradise,  if  you  don't  mind  dressing  and  undressing 
for  the  plunge  in  a  somewhat  inadequate  shelter  of 
banana-leaved  huts.    They  say  it  is  most  glorious 
to  wash  in  the  warm  sea  and  then  rinse  off  under 


272  SAILING  SOUTH 

the  cool  natural  shower  bath  of  the  falls.  But  the 
fall  of  Dun's  River  is  a  small  affair  contrasted  with 
a  cascade  a  mile  or  two  farther  on,  where  the  great- 
est of  all  the  island  cataracts  is  to  be  seen  at  a  small 
expenditure  of  time.  Millard  was  n't  going  to  let 
us  see  that  one  —  being  impressed  unduly  by  the 
fact  that  for  the  privilege  of  turning  aside  into  a 
private  road  the  guardian  holds  you  up  for  a  shilling 
apiece.  It  is  worth  the  fee,  however,  so  do  not  miss 
it.  You  drive  for  a  short  distance  on  the  private 
way  through  a  dense  growth,  toward  a  point  where 
can  be  heard  the  voice  of  many  waters.  Then  you 
descend  and  make  your  way  on  foot  to  the  base  of  a 
really  stupendous  cascade  which  comes  thundering 
out  of  the  mountains  and  dashing  and  splashing, 
and  whirling  and  swirling,  and  lunging  and  plung- 
ing —  you  know  how  the  water  comes  down  at 
Lodore?  Well,  it  does  that  same  way  here.  If 
Katrina,  with  her  zeal  for  sight-seeing  and  her  pro- 
pensity for  keeping  one  eye  on  the  guide-books, 
had  not  insisted,  I  am  afraid  we  should  have  been 
whisked  past  Roaring  River  Fall  and  landed  unduly 
early  in  St.  Ann.  As  it  was  we  parked  the  dis- 
gruntled Millard  under  a  cocoanut-palm  and  clam- 
bered over  the  rocks  to  the  base  of  this  miniature 
Niagara,  comparing  it  not  unfavorably  with  the 
Falls  of  Montmorency  just  below  Quebec. 


THE  NORTH  COAST  273 

After  which,  being  seated,  we  allowed  Young 
Nuisance  to  conduct  us  at  full  speed  to  St.  Ann  — 
drawing  up  with  a  grand  flourish,  such  as  stage-  (. 
drivers  love  the  world  over,  before  the  hospitable 
stairways  that  lead  up  to  the  Hotel  Osborne.  It 
was  the  hour  sacred  to  lunch,  and  the  gasoline  had, 
indeed,  endured  to  get  us  there  —  but  not  much 
more.  Millard  drove  away  in  hopeful  quest  of  some : 
we  to  a  shaded  veranda  and  to  the  prospect  of  a 
lazy  afternoon,  in  which  a  view  over  white  roofs  to 
a  sea  of  most  incredible  blues  figured  as  the  chief 
excitement. 

Apart  from  the  fact  that  there's  nothing  what- 
ever to  do  at  St.  Ann,  it 's  a  delightful  place  in  which 
to  be.  The  town  is  not  large,  but  it  is  neat.  It  lies 
on  a  slope  just  above  the  bay,  which  latter  is  pro- 
tected to  east  and  west  by  jutting  headlands.  It  is 
a  tiny  harbor  suitable  only  for  small  boats.  The 
bathing  would  be  excellent  if  there  were  any  facili- 
ties —  but  there  are  none.  The  popular  pastime 
at  St.  Ann  is  that  celebrated  by  the  poet,  Whitman, 
of  loafing  and  inviting  your  soul.  One  addicted 
to  eating  the  lotus  must  find  it  a  delightful  spot. 
You  simply  sit  in  the  shade  and  watch  indolent 
negresses  puffing  by  with  their  burdens  on  their 
heads  and  a  stubby  clay  pipe  of  obvious  antiquity 
held  between  ivory  teeth.  The  native  women,  of 


274  SAILING  SOUTH 

course,  are  inveterate  smokers  and  are  by  no  means 
confined  to  pipes.  A  black  cigar  is  not  infrequently 
preferred  —  and  while  I  think  of  it,  the  Jamaica 
cigars  are  very  far  from  being  half  bad.  They  are 
not  expensive,  but  are  very  tolerable  in  quality 
without  approaching  the  incomparable  product  of 
Cuba.  Jamaica  seems  never  to  have  made  any 
effort  to  boom  the  tobacco  trade,  being  more  alive 
to  the  virtues  of  bananas  and  cocoanuts.  The 
citrus  fruits  suffer  a  partial  neglect,  also,  when  in- 
dustry might  easily  make  of  the  Jamaica  tangerine 
with  its  ill-fitting  coat  a  coveted  luxury  beyond 
seas.  On  the  whole  it  seems  to  me  an  island  of 
neglected  opportunities  —  now  partly  recognized 
by  the  United  Fruit  people,  but  still  numerously 
available  for  further  exploitation. 

The  Osborne  House,  kept  by  an  industrious 
woman  with  sundry  masculine  assistants,  turned 
out  to  be  immaculately  clean  and  tidy.  It  was  also 
evidently  popular.  Owing  to  the  lack  of  local 
amusements  its  trade  is  naturally  transient,  apart 
from  sundry  English  guests  who  hie  themselves 
thither  chiefly  because  it  is  both  a  quiet  spot  and  a 
reasonable.  It  was  for  the  moment  enlivened,  aside 
from  our  humble  selves,  by  a  strolling  troupe  of 
movie  photographers  in  quest  of  "nature  studies" 
for  an  "educational"  film  corporation  in  the 


THE  NORTH  COAST  275 

States.  These  gentry,  after  a  wild  time  in  getting 
across  from  Cuba  by  an  unfrequented  line,  found 
life  admittedly  dull.  There  is  small  excitement  in 
taking  moving  pictures  of  tropical  trees  after  you 
have  been  filming  scenarios  for  Douglas  Fairbanks, 
Ethel  Barrymore,  Nazimova,  et  id  om. 

The  evening's  conversation  turned  on  the  idio- 
syncrasies and  peculiarities  of  movie  stars,  their 
fabulous  salaries,  their  probable  length  of  days  as 
public  favorites,  and  so  on.  Mary  Pickford's  an- 
nual income  was  casually  estimated  at  "about  two 
million  —  but  what  does  that  get  her?  The  Govern- 
ment takes  'most  all  of  it!" 

The  movie  troupe  was  a  unit  in  expressing  its 
admiration  for  that  national  institution,  the  plant- 
ers' punch;  but  apart  from  that  it  preferred  New 
York  and  Los  Angeles  for  steady  diet.  It  was 
bound  hence  for  Montego  Bay. 

"Have  you  any  gasoline?"  I  inquired. 

"  No  —  not  very  much.  But  we  '11  take  a  chance. 
If  we  get  stuck  we'll  just  camp  out  and  register 
'hope,'  I  guess.  The  Lord  will  provide." 

I  suspect  that  must  be  what  they  did,  for  I  found 
after  lunch  how  serious  was  the  gasoline  question. 
There  was  a  local  famine.  Young  Nuisance  came 
back  to  the  hotel  with  a  very  long  face,  announcing 
that  not  one  drop  was  to  be  had  for  any  consider- 


276  SAILING  SOUTH 

ation  in  the  purlieus  of  St.  Ann.  He  had  only  a 
gallon  or  so  remaining,  and  our  next  jump  was  one 
of  seventy-five  miles.  What  was  he  to  do? 

I  said  I  did  n't  know.  In  short,  it  was  n't  up  to 
me  —  but  all  the  time  I  knew  it  was. 

Inquiry  developed  the  fact  that  the  nearest  rail- 
way station  was  Ewarton,  some  thirty  miles  away 
in  the  interior.  If  worst  came  to  worst  we  could 
hire  a  wagon  to  drive  us  there  and  leave  Young 
Nuisance  to  starve  in  the  midst  of  plenty.  I  was 
minded  to  do  this. 

Then  we  thought  of  the  United  Fruit,  that  fairy 
godmother;  so  we  squandered  a  half -gill  of  the 
precious  fluid  on  a  drive  to  the  docks  where  stood 
the  local  office.  Yes,  they  had  gasoline  —  but  only 
a  little.  They  were  n't  allowed  to  sell  it,  even  to 
themselves.  It  was  for  trucks,  and  so  forth.  At 
this  point  I  produced  credentials  from  the  remote 
potentates  of  the  company.  The  effect  was  magi- 
cal. They  would  telephone  Kingston  and  see  if  I 
might  be  supplied  by  special  permit. 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon  a  dusky  messenger 
brought  me  a  typewritten  message  which  read  like 
the  eleventh-hour  reprieve  of  the  condemned.  "Mr. 
M.  can  have  gasoline  to  take  him  to  Port  Antonio 
or  to  any  other  part  of  the  island.  (Signed)  K." 
We  were  saved ! 


THE  NORTH  COAST  277 

It  was  here  that  I  learned  the  important  differ- 
ence between  a  British  and  American  gallon.  Ours 
is  smaller.  But  whichever  it  was,  we  filled  the  tank 
as  full  as  it  would  go,  paid  the  fee  which  was  by 
no  means  inconsiderable,  and  offered  humble  and 
hearty  thanks  for  the  chance  to  do  it.  Thence  back 
to  the  hotel  to  listen  to  a  painstaking  child  in  the 
next  block  practicing  five-finger  exercises  and  al- 
ways ending  with  "The  Happy  Farmer,"  in  the 
production  of  which  masterpiece  she  made  the 
same  mistakes  on  each  repetition. 

Walking  about  the  streets  of  St.  Ann's  Bay  we 
came  across  many  a  friendly  person  of  color,  chiefly 
in  the  way  of  affable  and  solicitous  mammies  pulling 
on  their  T.D.'s  and  anxious  to  show  their  interest  in 
the  stranger  within  their  gates. 

"Good-mawnin',  Mistress  Missus!" 

1 '  Good-morning ! ' ' 

"How  is  yo'  health,  Mistress  Missus!" 

"Very  fair,  thank  you.  And  you?" 

"Fine,  Mistress  Missus!  An'  how  is  yo'  health, 
Massa?" 

Such  soft  and  melodious  voices  —  and  yet  I  can- 
not recall  that  I  often  heard  singing.  Perhaps  be- 
cause the  Church  of  England  does  not  encourage 
the  singing  of  what  we  call  "negro  spirituals,"  or 
because  the  plantation  ditty  is  an  American  product 


278  SAILING  SOUTH 

exclusively,  the  Jamaican  darky  seems  not  to  be- 
guile his  days  with  song.  You  do  meet  now  and 
then  a  dusky  troubadour  on  the  road  with  his  gui- 
tar —  but  you  will  be  lucky  if  in  addition  to  hear- 
ing him  strum  upon  it  you  also  hear  him  lift  his 
voice.  I  heard  negro  chanteys  when  we  were  rafting 
on  the  river  —  but  that  is  another  story. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
PORT  ANTONIO 

ALONG  the  northern  coast  of  Jamaica,  bending 
in  and  out  with  the  indentations  of  the  shore, 
runs  a  reasonably  level  and  very  excellent  road 
connecting  St.  Ann's  Bay  with  the  eastern  town  of 
Port  Antonio.  To  be  sure,  it  is  a  narrow  highway 
and  very  far  from  straight,  so  that  one  driving  over 
it  is  in  constant  need  of  what  the  law  school  pro- 
fessors used  to  call  "the  degree  of  care  which  an 
ordinarily  prudent  man  would  exercise  in  the  cir- 
cumstances"; but  it  is  a  delightful  journey  to  make 
in  any  case. 

St.  Ann  has  little  to  hold  you  long,  as  I  believe  I 
have  remarked  once  before,  aside  from  its  pleasant 
situation  and  its  very  admirable  little  inn.  Port 
Antonio,  on  the  contrary,  has  allurements  that 
might  easily  hold  you  forever.  I  am  coming  to  that. 

Plentifully  supplied  with  petrol,  Millard,  our 
juvenile  charioteer,  was  once  more  restored  to  the 
buoyant  spirits  consistent  with  his  meager  years 
and  was  promptly  at  the  door  on  the  morning  of 
our  departure.  The  day  was  fine,  the  Caribbean 
smiled,  and  the  early  northeast  trade  blew  as  gently 


28o  SAILING  SOUTH 

as  a  western  zephyr  in  our  faces  as  we  took  the 
road.  It  was  a  day  to  mark  in  the  memory  with  a 
very  white  stone.  The  showers  of  the  day  before 
had  laid  the  dust,  and  had  washed  from  the  way- 
side shrubs  that  coating  of  white  which  in  most 
Jamaican  highways  somewhat  dims  the  tropic 
splendors,  save  in  seasons  of  heavy  rain. 

For  many  a  mile  the  way  led  close  to  the  beach  — 
a  beach  broken  by  repeated  low  capes  and  forever 
lined  with  palms.  To  the  landward  side  the  cliffs 
rose  steeply,  rock  below  and  riotous  verdure  above. 
We  proceeded  at  a  conservative  pace  past  myriad 
coves  where  gushing  rivers  from  the  hills  leaped 
from  the  low  rocks  into  the  sea.  The  multitudes  of 
the  countryside  were  coming  in  town  to  market, 
some  in  carts  and  some  afoot  with  loads  of  fruit 
perched  jauntily  on  their  heads.  To  each  and  all 
we  paid  the  passing  tribute  of  a  toot  • —  for  not 
only  did  Millard  love  his  raucous  horn ;  the  natives 
also  demanded  this  notice  as  an  indication  of  their 
recognized  presence. 

I  have  discovered  that  although  a  Jamaican 
darky  sees  you  coming  and  knows  that  you  see  him, 
he  is  none  the  less  anxious  to  have  you  toot  at  him. 
If  you  do  not,  it  seems  to  be  felt  to  be  a  species  of 
insult  —  or  at  best  a  gross  social  error. 

"Whuffo'  you  not  blow  yo*  hawn  at  me,  Mars 


PORT  ANTONIO  281 

Josh?"  indignantly  inquired  a  Port  Antonio  dame 
of  my  good  friend  B.  one  day.  "Doan*  I  see  you, 
an'  doan'  you  see  me?  Whuffo'  you  not  blow  yo* 
hawn?" 

Therefore  Millard,  mindful  of  insular  etiquette, 
blew  painstakingly  on  the  open  road  at  all  and 
sundry  —  but  swept  silently  around  the  narrow 
curves  to  the  imminent  danger  of  such  as  might  be 
approaching  unseen.  Evidently  our  siren  was  not 
regarded  by  him  as  a  warning  signal,  but  as  a  sort 
of  saluting  apparatus,  or  stertorous  equivalent  to 
raising  the  hat. 

Once  we  dashed  around  a  corner  full  upon  a 
truck  loading  bananas  and  were  forced  to  an 
emergency  stop  as  the  better  part  of  valor  —  since 
a  five-year-old  touring  car  is  no  match  for  a  full- 
fledged  army  truck  piled  high  with  green  fruit. 
Then,  and  then  only,  was  the  stolid  calm  of  Millard 
broken.  He  leaned  as  haughtily  as  his  sixteen  years 
would  allow  from  his  seat  and  shouted,  "Hey!  Dis 
a  fine  place  for  you  to  be  loadin'  de  banan'!  My 
Gawd!"  The  truck  crew  grinned  an  ivory  grin, 
obligingly  pulled  ahead  half  a  length  —  and  we 
were  off  once  more  in  a  whirl  of  mingled  dust  and 
gasoline. 

One  coast  ride  in  Jamaica  is  as  like  unto  another 
as  one  hand  is  to  another  hand.  That  is,  although 


282  SAILING  SOUTH 

all  different,  they  tend  to  a  certain  uniformity  of 
general  feature.  We  began  to  pass  through  other 
minor  northern  ports,  some  redolent  of  the  ancient 
Spanish  days  and  others  with  more  stupid  British 
names,  which,  if  traced,  would  probably  turn  out  to 
be  corruptions  of  the  ancient  Spanish.  Then  the 
highway  left  the  sea  and  crossed  a  spur  of  mountain, 
only  to  descend  to  the  water  again  at  Annotta  Bay, 
meeting  there  the  railroad  which  had  climbed  over 
the 'main  ridge  between  us  and  the  Kingston  side. 
Thence  we  proceeded  many  a  level  mile  close  to  the 
ocean's  marge,  now  and  then  sprayed  by  the  break- 
ers from  the  beach  as  the  day's  breeze  increased  in 
strength  and  piled  the  long  rollers  more  and  more 
vehemently  on  the  yellow  sands. 

At  last,  well  after  noon,  we  coasted  down  a  long 
hill  and  found  before  us  the  considerable  town  of 
Port  Antonio,  almost  at  the  northeast  corner  of  the 
island,  with  the  long  and  curiously  dark  bulk  of  the 
famous  Titchfield  Hotel  stretching  itself  along  the 
top  of  the  jutting  spur  of  land  that  here  makes  out 
into  the  sea  between  twin  harbors.  A  whisk  through 
narrow  streets,  a  mad  dash  up  another  slope,  and 
we  had  arrived. 

I  find  myself  reluctant  to  undertake  any  descrip- 
tion of  Port  Antonio,  because  it  makes  such  a 
heavy  demand  upon  the  powers  of  expression.  I 


OLD  CHURCH,  ANNOTTA  BAY,  JAMAICA 


PORT  ANTONIO  283 

have  seen  many  a  beautiful  spot  on  this  green  earth, 
but  seldom  if  ever  have  I  seen  one  so  beautiful,  or 
so  rare  a  combination  of  sea,  sky,  and  summit.  I 
can  imagine  nothing  more  soul-satisfying  than  the 
entrance  by  ship  into  the  harbors  of  Port  Antonio 
on  a  cloudless  morning,  when  the  wind  is  asleep 
and  when  the  lofty  mountains  behind  the  city  are 
free  from  cloud.  It  is  a  thousand  pities  that  the 
exigencies  of  commerce  have  led  to  the  abandon- 
ment of  this  as  a  port  of  call  for  the  regular 
passenger  ships  of  the  United  Fruit;  for  it  is  sure 
that  such  an  arrangement  as  used  to  obtain  would 
enhance  the  seductiveness  of  travel  to  Jamaica. 
Nevertheless  it  is  only  the  special  cruisers  and  the 
way-freighters  that  come  in  there  now.  The  regular 
lines  all  go  around  to  Kingston  and  leave  you  to 
find  out  Port  Antonio  by  land. 

The  town  itself  is  rather  unattractive  —  not  very 
large,  almost  entirely  negroid,  but  situated  in  a 
setting  that  would  redeem  a  hamlet  far  less  ornate 
than  this  one  actually  is.  Off  to  one  side  stands  a 
venerable  stone  church  on  a  little  knoll.  All  around 
rise  abrupt,  conical  hills,  possibly  five  or  six  hundred 
feet  in  height,  cultivated  to  their  summits  and 
usually  crowned  with  villas  that  seem  impossible 
of  approach.  Behind  them  tower  the  seven  thou- 
sand feet  of  the  old  Blue  Mountain.  It  is  the  para- 


284  SAILING  SOUTH 

dise  of  tourists,  and  it  has  proved  to  be  the  popular 
spot  for  those  who,  wearying  of  bleak  northern 
winters,  have  located  in  Jamaica  their  palaces  of 
ease.  The  climate  is  without  a  peer  —  not  too  hot 
by  day,  not  too  chilly  by  night,  not  too  dry,  and  not 
too  moist.  The  trade  wind  blows  steadily  at  noon- 
day. The  mountain  breeze  walketh  in  the  darkness. 
There  is  always  a  cool  spot  at  midday  somewhere 
around  the  house.  Golf  links,  not  two  miles  away, 
afford  a  chance  for  exercise  to  such  as  rise  early 
enough  to  escape  the  noontide  sun,  or  such  as  brave 
the  torridity  of  late  afternoon.  Tennis  in  the  shade 
of  the  hotel  is  always  available.  And  out  on  a  shoal 
in  the  western  bay  lies  a  remote  bath-house  where 
swimming  is  an  unmixed  delight. 

There  are  twin  harbors,  separated  from  one  an- 
other by  a  narrow  and  lofty  promontory  on  which 
is  set  the  great  bulk  of  the  Hotel  Titchfield.  From 
this  commodious  hostelry  the  land  slopes  sharply 
on  either  hand,  through  terraced  gardens,  to  the 
sea  —  a  sea  protected  on  either  side  by  yet  other 
capes.  The  harbor  entrances  are  narrow,  but  deep, 
and  remind  one  of  the .  dramatic  approaches  to 
Havana  in  Cuba  and  to  San  Juan  in  Porto  Rico. 
Either  bay  is  suitable  for  ships  of  deep  draught ;  but 
at  present  the  eastern  one  is  affected  only  by  the  great 
white-and-gold  cruisers  that  drop  in  week  after  week 


PORT  ANTONIO  285 

to  land  their  sight-seeing  parties.  The  western  bay, 
with  its  equally  narrow  channel  and  its  greater 
plenitude  of  docks,  is  the  busier  of  the  two — with 
freighters  coming  and  going  daily.  You  sit  on  the 
hotel  veranda  and  see  them  slipping  in  and  out. 
You  learn  the  whistle  code  and  know  which  are 
United  Fruit  boats  and  which  other  lines. 

And  all  the  while  the  breeze  blows  softly  but 
steadily  from  the  water,  through  arbors,  through 
roses,  through  flowering  trees.  A  fountain  plashes 
pleasantly  in  the  garden  toward  the  north.  A  rag- 
bag of  a  Hindu  ministers  to  the  fragrant  blooms 
tirelessly  through  the  day.  Why  do  anything?  Why 
not  remain  here  forever?  And  yet,  curiously  enough, 
the  Titchfield  is  open  only  a  few  months  of  the  win- 
ter, and  then  lies  idle  the  rest  of  the  year,  while 
the  Myrtle  Bank,  over  in  stifling  Kingston,  runs 
the  year  round.  The  United  Fruit,  which  runs  both 
hotels,  has  at  times  even  talked  of  abandoning 
the  Titchfield  altogether  —  an  incredible  thing  to 
do.  This  terrestrial  paradise  ought  to  be  perfectly 
flooded  with  holiday-makers,  from  autumn  to  June. 
All  it  needs  is  to  be  pushed.  No  one  who  ever  went 
thither  could  be  aught  but  a  determined  advertiser 
of  Port  Antonio.  It  is  the  veritable  Garden  of  the 
Lord. 

At  eleven  in  the  forenoon  and  again  at  four  in  the 


286  SAILING  SOUTH 

afternoon,  a  tiny  launch  goes  out  to  the  bath-house 
on  the  shoal.  The  water  close  to  the  hotel  is  sixty 
feet  deep,  or  thereabouts;  but  at  the  bath-house,  a 
mile  away  out  in  the  midst  of  the  harbor,  it  is  only 
from  five  feet  to  about  ankle-deep,  according  to 
where  you  stand.  You  alight  at  the  house,  change 
your  clothing  in  one  of  the  little  cells  allotted  to  you, 
and  then  disport  at  ease  in  water  that  differs  from 
the  air  only  in  being  wet  and  salty.  I  have  no  doubt 
you  could  remain  in  it  all  day.  Of  course  everybody 
bathes,  and  many  get  themselves  rowed  out  to  the 
shoal  at  odd  hours,  preferring  it  to  the  rapid  launch 
trip  in  a  crowd. 

But  for  the  most  part  you  simply  sit  in  the  cool  of 
the  deep  verandas,  now  here,  now  there,  as  suits  the 
breeze,  reading,  smoking,  having  tea  —  or  some- 
thing else  —  talking,  watching  the  ships,  admiring 
the  dancers  of  an  evening;  in  short,  thoroughly 
enjoying  life.  Tropic  heat  mitigated  by  a  cool- 
ing wind,  odorous  gardens,  waving  palms,  terraces 
smiling  in  the  sun  —  such  is  Port  Antonio,  an 
earthly  replica  of  the  Persian's  heaven.  For  what 
says  the  poet  — 

"A  Persian's  heaven  is  easily  made; 
It  is  dark  eyes  and  lemonade!" 

I  am,  as  Katrina  sometimes  reminds  me,  of  a 


VIEW  FROM  PORCH  OF  TITCHFIELD  HOTEL,  PORT  ANTONIO 


PORT  ANTONIO  287 

sedentary  habit.  I  could  linger  in  such  a  spot  as 
Port  Antonio  forever  and  a  day.  I  should  need 
hardly  stir  from  the  hotel.  And  yet  now  and  then 
you  do  stir.  You  go  "downtown"  shopping  —  al- 
though there's  little  enough  to  buy,  save  baskets 
and  the  cloth  for  your  summer  suit.  You  can  make 
various  excursions  along  the  shore.  You  can  ride 
over  to  Blue  Hole  —  which  is  a  cavernous  cove  in 
the  north  shore  about  eight  miles  to  the  eastward, 
where  they  say  (and  I  believe  it)  that  the  depth  of 
the  water  is  three  hundred  feet  or  more.  The  name, 
of  course,  comes  from  the  exceptional  blueness  of  the 
sea  here  —  blue  even  for  this  clime,  where  the  sea  is 
never  anything  but  a  gorgeously  unbelievable  ul- 
tramarine. You  drive  thither  over  a  splendid  road 
lined  by  plantations  in  which  the  omnipresent  ba- 
nana and  the  useful  cocoanut  figure  predominantly. 
I  spoke  a  little  while  ago  of  the  heathen  Hindu 
who  attends  the  Titchfield  gardens.  He  is  one  of  a 
numerous  race,  for  Hindu  importations  to  Jamaica 
in  past  years  have  been  heavy,  although  the  immi- 
gration is  now  cut  off.  As  I  understand  it,  these  were 
brought  over  as  a  sort  of  contract  labor,  heavily  in- 
dentured to  employers  for  work  in  the  fields.  It 
wasn't  slavery,  of  course;  and  yet  it  savored  so 
strongly  of  servitude  that  a  reaction  appears  to  have 
set  in  and  the  planters  are  somewhat  embarrassed  in 


288  SAILING  SOUTH 

consequence  to  obtain  adequate  supplies  of  toilers. 
No  Hindus  are  coming  over  now,  but  the  multitude 
who  came  in  the  past  seem  especially  plentiful  along 
the  northern  side  of  the  island.  Dusky  of  color,  they 
might  be  confused  with  the  negroes  of  African 
descent  were  it  not  for  their  predilection  for  massive 
jewelry  around  the  neck  or  in  the  ears,  or  occasionally 
in  the  nose,  and  for  their  conviction  that  it  is  un- 
worthy to  wear  trousers.  The  Hindu  swathes  his 
legs  in  swaddling  bands,  usually  of  a  ragged  nature ; 
and  while  he  exceeds  the  "piece  of  twisty  rag "  which 
Gunga  Din  affected  as  his  principal  uniform,  it  is 
much  of  a  muchness  therewith.  The  Jamaica  darky, 
on  the  contrary,  has  no  caste  prejudices.  He  wears 
our  kind  of  clothes  —  and  gorgeous  ones,  of  course, 
after  his  peculiar  taste  in  which  a  note  of  bright  blue 
is  conspicuous. 

I  have  no  doubt  the  Hindus  keep  themselves  more 
or  less  to  themselves,  being  clannish  and  bound  by 
curious  ideas  of  religion.  The  ordinary  darky  is 
gregarious,  however,  and  he  is  a  most  affable  soul. 
Like  our  own  Southern  negro,  he  loves  long  words, 
resounding  names,  and  is  strongly  religious  in  his 
own  way. 

Naturally  he  speaks  English;  but  it  is  dialect 
English.  When  he  is  conversing  with  a  fellow-negro 
you  will  scarcely  understand  one  word  in  a  dozen. 


PORT  ANTONIO  289 

When  you  speak  to  him  he  always  pretends  to  under- 
stand —  but  if  you  would  be  safe,  do  not  rest  con- 
tent with  his  "yassah."  Just  ask  him  to  repeat  what 
you  said.  Ten  to  one  he  cannot  —  and  then  you  go 
over  it  all  again.  He  usually  says  "yassah"  because 
that  is  politely  agreeable  and  saves  trouble. 

Families  in  Jamaica  are  enormous.  There  is  n't 
the  faintest  semblance  of  anything  that  can  be  mis- 
taken for  race  suicide.  The  wayside  hamlets  are 
full  of  pickaninnies.  There  appears  to  be  a  fondness 
on  the  part  of  Jamaica  mothers  for  resounding 
names.  "Amanilla,"  or  some  such  fanciful  device, 
is  apt  to  be  attached  to  females  of  the  species,  and 
it  gets  to  be  monotonous.  They  relate  that  once, 
when  a  negro  girl  baby  was  brought  before  one 
Bishop  Enos  to  be  baptized  under  the  name  of 
"Amanilla"  he  remonstrated  that  the  name  was  too 
common  and  urged  the  substitution  of  something 
different.  Whereupon  the  devout  parents  announced 
that  the  girl  should  be  named  for  Bishop  Enos  him- 
self —  and  they  called  her  name  "Shenos!" 

Now  that  I  pause  to  re-read  what  has  been  written 
I  am  impressed  with  the  utter  inadequacy  of  it  to 
give  any  idea  of  the  beauties  of  Port  Antonio.  I 
must  give  it  up,  then,  and  urge  that  you  make  trial 
of  it  for  yourself,  if  you  would  fain  know  one  of  the 
loveliest  spots  on  earth.  The  half  has  not  been  told 


290  SAILING  SOUTH 

you  —  nor  the  tithe.  Why  in  the  world  any  one,  who 
is  not  absolutely  compelled,  should  remain  in  our 
unspeakable  winter  climate  when  such  joyous  places 
as  Port  Antonio  are  accessible  without  impoverish- 
ment, it  is  difficult  to  understand.  To  know  Port 
Antonio  is  to  love  it.  To  have  been  there  is  to  go 
there  again  and  again.  Here  is  summer,  without 
summer's  rigor.  Here  is  beauty  to  be  enjoyed  with- 
out effort.  What  more  can  you  ask?  Would  you 
tire  of  it?  Hardly  —  but  if  you  did,  you  could  go 
to  the  hills.  And  when  you  had  gone  thither  you 
would  find  yourself  sighing  for  those  deep  gardens, 
those  airy  verandas,  'that  unutterably  blue  and 
smiling  sea. 

It  must  be  healthful,  too.  Now  that  I  think  of  it 
I  do  not  recall  that  once  in  all  our  journeying  to  and 
fro  among  the  parishes  of  the  island  did  I  meet  a 
single  funeral  —  and  in  Porto  Rico,  a  year  ago,  I 
was  forever  taking  off  my  hat  in  silent  honor  to  the 
passing  caskets  of  the  poor.  No  doubt  men  die  in 
Jamaica  —  and  when  they  die  it  must  indeed  be 
hard  to  reconcile  one's  self  to  go,  leaving  as  one  does 
an  earthly  paradise.  Fortunate,  indeed,  then,  that 
we  are  promised  even  greater  glories  in  that  which  is 
to  come! 


CHAPTER  XX 
RAFTING  IN  JAMAICA 

JAMAICA,  the  "Isle  of  Springs,"  has  numerous 
brawling  rivers,  never  of  great  magnitude  and 
usually  swift  because  of  the  abrupt  declivities  of 
the  courses  which  they  run.  Moreover,  they  have 
the  disconcerting  habit  which  has  been  spoken  of 
hitherto  of  disappearing  altogether  without  warning, 
only  to  emerge  with  undiminished  volume  some- 
where else,  the  intervening  passage  being  subter- 
raneous. 

None,  I  believe,  is  navigable  save  by  rafting; 
but  the  rafting  such  as  one  may  enjoy  on  the  Rio 
Grande  near  Port  Antonio,  or  on  the  Rio  Cobre  near 
Kingston  (beginning  at  Bog  Walk),  affords  such 
a  pleasant  experience  that  I  have  been  saving  it  for 
my  closing  chapter  on  winter  vacation  doings  in 
lands  to  the  southward. 

The  tremors  which  one  experiences  in  such  a  case 
are  purely  anticipatory.  There  is,  in  fact,  nothing 
about  the  journey  which  need  cause  alarm  —  and 
yet  the  bare  mention  of  shooting  rapids  is  usually  ter- 
rifying and  suffices  to  keep  you  in  a  twitter  through 
several  days  during  which  you  procrastinate  and 


292  SAILING  SOUTH 

postpone.  But  when  you  finally  announce  at  the 
hotel  office  that  your  resolution  is  at  last  fixed  to  go 
a-rafting,  the  hotel  authorities  assure  you  that  you 
ought  to  buy  a  raft  ticket  at  the  office  —  of  them. 
You  really  do  not  need  to,  but  it  does  no  harm.  Like- 
wise no  good.  You  buy  it,  therefore,  at  a  stipulated 
tariff  in  the  fond  belief  that  this  exempts  you  from 
native  profiteering  at  the  river  —  only  to  discover 
that  your  raftsman,  an  adept  at  playing  on  the  ten- 
der emotions,  draws  such  a  doleful  picture  of  his 
hard  financial  condition  as  the  result  of  your  having 
bought  your  ticket  (they  call  it  a  "horder")  in  town 
that  you  cheerfully  disburse  thrice  the  fee  by  way  of 
largess  when  you  part  from  him!  I  mention  this  now 
merely  because  it  occurs  to  me.  It  does  n't  belong 
here,  but  much  farther  on  in  my  experiences  with 
the  Black  Pearl  of  all  rivermen,  hight  Charles 
Roberts. 

In  order  to  make  this  excursion  you  will  need  first 
of  all  a  carriage  —  which  suffices  to  convey  you  to 
the  headwaters  of  the  river  at  a  point  some  five  or 
six  miles  from  town,  and  which,  after  abandoning 
you  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  river  drivers,  pro- 
ceeds empty  to  another  point  some  five  miles  below, 
there  to  pick  you  up  on  landing.  Meantime  you 
are  to  sail  down  a  river  of  surpassing  beauty  for  the 
space  of  something  more  than  an  hour,  now  through 


RAFTING  IN  JAMAICA  293 

placid  reaches  over  gleaming  sands,  now  down  roar- 
ing rapids  over  pebbles  and  boulders  innumerable. 
I  have  no  hesitation  in  affirming  that  of  all  our  ex- 
periences in  Jamaica,  this  was  the  most  thoroughly 
delightful  in  every  possible  way,  from  the  time  we 
embarked  until  the  time  we  stepped  ashore.  On  no 
account  whatever  is  it  to  be  missed. 

Wisdom  dictates  making  the  journey  in  the  fore- 
noon, before  the  sun  gets  in  his  deadly  work  for  the 
day.  It  is  well  to  leave  the  Titchfield  by  eight  o'clock, 
if  you  can  bring  yourself  to  rise  so  early.  At  that 
hour  the  morning  is  still  freshly  cool,  and  as  your 
horses  trot  nimbly  out  of  the  town  and  up  into  the 
adjacent  hills  you  will  meet  the  inflowing  tide  of 
market  traffic,  chiefly  afoot  —  native  women  toting 
on  their  heads  just  enough  of  the  produce  of  their 
meager  plantations  to  win  them  another  day's 
gains.  It  is  a  mixed  population,  largely  Hindu  and 
partly  plain  negro,  the  Hindu  women  gorgeous  in 
their  heavy  bracelets  and  necklaces.  The  driver 
will,  as  usual,  purvey  information  as  to  wayside 
trees  and  fruits  —  generally  telling  you  that  it 
is  n't  the  right  season  to  sample  the  latter.  I  have 
discovered  that  in  the  matter  of  mangoes,  breadfruit, 
custard  apples,  and  so  on,  man  never  is,  but  always 
to  be  blest.  Next  month  they  will  be  ripe  —  not 
now.  Still,  if  you  are  lucky  enough  to  win  the  favor 


294  SAILING  SOUTH 

of  some  local  expert,  he  or  she  can  generally  find  you 
a  mango  that  is  prematurely  ripe  to  try  —  and  you 
will  find  it  pleasantly  acrid,  with  a  suggestion  of  the 
taste  of  the  arborvitae  leaf,  and  juicy  to  a  charm. 

It  is  a  long  climb  to  the  point  where  the  rafts  are 
to  be  had.  The  little  horses  tug  manfully  up  the  long 
grades,  and  the  villages  passed  are  few.  But  even- 
tually you  come  to  a  tiny  hamlet,  bearing  the  attrac- 
tive name  of  Fellowship,  whence  a  ruder  side  road 
branches  off  into  the  highlands ;  and  over  this,  now 
up  and  now  down,  you  make  a  steady  progress 
toward  your  goal.  Very  likely  an  industrious 
youngster  meets  you  —  a  crafty  raftsman,  anxious 
to  be  forehanded  with  possible  fares.  He  has 
walked  out  two  weary  miles  from  the  landing  and 
now  he  trots  eagerly  back  beside  the  carriage,  ex- 
torting repeated  promises  of  patronage.  You  will 
discover  on  reaching  the  place  of  general  assembly 
that  all  his  toil  is  vain.  For,  you  see,  you  have  a 
ticket,  and  that  puts  you  under  the  protection  of 
the  master  of  the  boatmen.  He  waves  aside  the 
eager  lad  who  has  tagged  you  in.  It  seems  that  this 
lad  is  a  first-grade  pilot  —  but  it  is  n't  his  turn  and 
he  must  n't  presume  on  the  others.  Wherefore  you 
feel  sorry  for  his  fruitless  race  and  secretly  pay  him  a 
shilling  or  two  —  which  is  really  all  he  expected, 
anyhow.  Then  he  goes  back  and  does  the  same  thing 


RAFTING  IN  JAMAICA  295 

over  again,  thus  earning  a  day's  wages  without  once 
taking  to  the  river. 

That  was  what  happened,  at  all  events,  to  us.  We 
found  the  landing-place  alive  with  men  and  boys,  as 
thick  as  hasty  pudding.  Exercising  authority  over 
them  was  a  local  centurion,  a  canny  Scot  with  a 
gentle  manner  and  soft  voice,  respected  by  his 
subordinates  and  obviously  accepted  by  them  as 
strictly  just.  There  was  no  squabbling  over  our 
allotment,  even  when  the  swarthy  youth  who  had 
claimed  us  on  the  way  in  was  firmly  but  gently 
denied.  MacDonald,  or  whatever  his  name  was, 
destined  us  to  the  tender  care  of  Charles  Roberts  — 
and  all  the  clamoring  host  fell  away  as  if  by  magic. 
Charles,  bare  of  foot  and  evidently  a  charter  mem- 
ber of  the  overalls  club,  stepped  forward  and  waved 
us  toward  the  water.  The  chief  said  he  was  a  good 
pilot  —  one  of  the  best.  But  of  course  he  would  say 
that. 

Charles  Roberts  drew  in  his  craft,  and  I  must 
admit  that  it  did  not  look  to  my  untutored  eye  to 
be  altogether  seaworthy.  It  was  made  of  bamboo 
poles,  perhaps  eight  of  them,  twenty-five  feet  long 
and  of  fair  girth,  lashed  together  at  either  end  and 
also  at  intervals  down  the  middle.  When  Charles 
stepped  aboard  the  poles  submerged  slightly  and 
water  flowed  agreeably  over  the  entire  length  of  the 


296  SAILING  SOUTH 

ship.  Aft,  laid  crosswise,  were  other  bamboo  logs 
and  on  top  of  these  yet  other  poles  making  a  sort  of 
raised  dais,  on  which  we  were  to  sit,  a  la  Turque. 
This  meager  poop  was  naturally  a  few  inches  above 
the  general  level  of  the  raft  and  was  therefore 
well  out  of  the  water  if  you  did  n't  let  your  feet 
down. 

Katrina  and  I  took  our  positions,  commended  our 
souls  to  Heaven,  unfurled  the  green  sunshade,  and 
announced  in  a  sepulchral  voice  that  we  were  all  set. 
Charles  Roberts  took  up  a  long  pole,  placed  himself 
at  the  bow,  and  we  slid  gracefully  into  midstream  — 
which  at  this  point  was  a  broad  and  peaceful  sheet  of 
water  gliding  as  softly  as  Browning  says  the  Mayne 
doth. 

Well  inshore,  under  the  deep  shadow  of  a  beetling 
cliff  and  just  missing  the  overhanging  branches  of 
riotous  trees,  we  slipped  gently  along.  In  the  dis- 
tance we  could  hear  our  carriage  rattle  away  over  the 
pebbles  on  shore,  on  its  way  to  meet  us  miles  below. 
Birds  flitted  in  the  air  above.  From  every  tree 
dripped  the  long  pendants  of  the  orchids  which  lead 
parasitic  lives  on  all  tropic  forests.  If  there  is  a 
Styx  in  Heaven,  as  well  as  in  Acheron,  it  must  resem- 
ble the  Rio  Grande  of  Jamaica. 

After  a  half-mile  or  so  of  this  uneventful  but 
agreeable  sailing  we  came  to  our  first  rapid.  Se- 


RAFTING  IN  JAMAICA  297 

cretly  I  had  dreaded  this.  It  turned  out,  however,  to 
be  a  little  one  and  not  especially  alarming.  The 
water  hastened  its  pace  and  then  plunged  down  a 
long  hill  of  rocks.  Charles,  suddenly  awakened  to 
alertness,  picked  out  a  promising  reach  and  shot  us 
into  it  with  consummate  skill.  In  a  jiffy  we  were 
roaring  down  with  the  torrent  at  express  speed, 
dragging  gently  over  pebbles,  shipping  a  sea  now  and 
then,  but  somehow  keeping  in  the  current  and  above 
all  avoiding  a  broadside  rush  which  would  surely 
have  dumped  us  unceremoniously  into  the  stream. 
I  suppose  it  was  all  over  in  thirty  seconds  —  but 
it  seemed  longer.  I  reflected  that  the  ultimate 
destination  of  our  voyage  lay  many  hundred  feet 
below  and  that  probably  we  should  have  our  fill  of 
rapids  before  we  got  there ;  still  there  was  a  pleasant 
tingle  of  excitement  in  it,  much  like  that  of  coasting 
at  home. 

Danger  there  probably  is  none  at  all,  save  that  of 
a  possible,  if  improbable,  wetting.  Your  raft  might 
get  away  from  its  pilot  and  swing  broadside  to  the 
stream  —  but  it  probably  seldom  does.  Ours  came 
near  it  only  once,  and  when  we  had  got  straight 
again  Charles  Roberts  made  himself  no  little  of  a 
hero.  He  drew  a  fearsome  picture  of  our  potential 
wreck.  But  as  the  raft  had  dragged  bottom  all  the 
way  down  and  as  a  bath  in  that  pellucid  river  in 


298  SAILING  SOUTH 

that  midsummer  heat  would  have  hurt  no  one,  we 
refused  to  be  greatly  perturbed. 

Whereupon  Charles  betook  himself  to  poling 
gently  down  another  placid  interval  in  the  river 
and  without  warning  raised  his  voice  in  song.  He 
was  not  a  grand-opera  star,  but  his  chantey  was 
well  designed  to  coordinate  his  muscular  move- 
ments to  the  task  in  hand.  It  ran  something  like 
this,  with  a  stout  thrust  of  the  pole  at  the  end  of 
every  line  for  punctuation: 

"Come  ovah  hyah! 
Somebody  say: 

Ah  wanta  find  out  whah  that  cullud  fellah  gone ! 
Come  ovah  hyah ! 
Somebody  say: 

Ah  wanta  find  out  whah  that  cullud  fellah  gone. 
Oh,  Yankee-doo-doo, 
Won't  you  come  home? 
Oh,  Yankee-doo-doo, 
Won't  you  come  home? 
Yo'  mammy  longs  to  see  you  comin'  home. 

"  I  'se  in  dis  land 
One  hund'ed  yeahs, 
Ah  could  n't  save 
No  dollahs  hyah  — 
Oh,  Yankee-doo-doo, 
Won't  you  come  home? 
Yo'  mammy  longs  to  see  you  comin'  home!" 

Of  course  we  clapped  our  hands  and  chirped  as  if 
we  had  never  heard  anything  so  delightful.  Katrina 


RAFTING  IN  JAMAICA  299 

demanded  a  repetition,  which  was  cheerfully  ac- 
corded, allegro  ma  non  troppo.  Likewise  Charles 
Roberts  sang  others,  the  import  of  which  I  forget. 
But  his  repertoire  was  not  extensive  and  when 
rapids  engaged  his  attention  —  as  they  did  ever 
and  anon  —  the  concert  was  interrupted. 

Now  and  again  we  met  raftsmen  working  their 
way  painfully  back,  which  is  a  long  job  and  one 
which  has  probably  the  same  meager  allurements 
that  attend  hauling  your  sled  back  to  the  top  of  a 
long  coast.  Charles  drew  attention  to  these  men  as 
being  in  some  sort  an  image  of  himself  after  we  had 
left  him.  He  drew  a  melancholy  picture  of  the  hard 
pull,  the  lack  of  excitement,  the  meager  pay. 
Standing  with  his  back  toward  us  and  poling  along 
the  placid  reaches  between  rapids  he  indulged  in 
lachrymose  soliloquy. 

"Chawles  Roberts,  you  ole  fool,  whuffo'  you 
spend  yo'  time  raftin'  white  folks  down  dis  ribber 
and  den  draggin'  yo'  ole  raff  back  ag'in?  Think 
what  dey  pays  you  for  all  dat  hahd  work!  Would 
any  one  else  do  it  fo*  six  shillin'?  Ain't  it  worf 
twelve  shillin'?  Dat's  what  white  folks  hab  to  pay 
us  when  dey  don't  get  no  tickets  at  de  hotel.  When 
dey  do  get  ticket  at  hotel  us  poor  fellahs  we  don't 
get  but  six  shillin'.  Chawles  Roberts,  you  certainly 
one  big  fool." 


300  SAILING  SOUTH 

This  speech  was  not  by  any  means  lost  on  us  — 
who  had  bought  hotel  tickets  —  nor  was  it  intended 
to  be.  It  was  addressed  apparently  to  high  heaven 
—  which  could  be  seen  smiling  as  a  remote  blue 
above  the  precipices  clad  with  verdure  on  either 
side  of  the  stream.  Katrina,  whose  charitable  im- 
pulses are  easily  aroused,  nudged  me  to  investigate 
our  dwindling  store  of  silver  and  in  a  subdued  voice 
pleaded  the  cause  of  a  substantial  tip.  Some  tele- 
pathic system,  or  possibly  prolonged  and  ripe  ex- 
perience, conveyed  the  glad  tidings  to  the  pilot, 
evidently,  for  very  shortly  he  became  less  pessi- 
mistic and  directed  our  attention  to  various  birds 
of  exotic  breed  —  a  languid  heron  perched  on  one 
pole-like  leg  in  the  shallows,  and  a  pure  white  bird 
which  he  assured  us  was  called  "DarlinV 

The  charm  of  the  Rio  Grande,  like  that  of  Port 
Antonio,  defies  ordinary  powers  of  description.  In 
a  way  it  is  like  Kubla  Khan's  sacred  river,  Alph, 
which  ran  through  caverns  measureless  to  man 
down  to  a  sunless  sea  —  save  that  no  one  could  call 
the  Caribbean  sunless.  It  meanders  leisurely  enough 
for  perhaps  half  a  mile  at  a  time,  then  gathers 
speed  and  slides  abruptly  to  another  level  over  a 
brawling  bed  of  pebbles.  It  is  much  more  than  a 
brook,  without  being  a  real  river,  save  at  times  of 
heavy  rain.  I  doubt  that  there  is  a  more  beautiful 


RAFTING  IN  JAMAICA  301 

stream  in  the  world,  or  one  more  solitary;  for  the 
abruptness  of  the  hills  on  either  hand  and  the 
density  of  the  jungle  which  clothes  their  nearly 
vertical  slopes,  prevents  "the  hand  of  man  from 
setting  foot"  there  and  gives  you  all  the  sensation 
of  being  remote  on  the  Amazon  or  Orinoco  —  when 
as  a  matter  of  fact  you  are  n't  at  any  point  more 
than  five  miles  from  civilization  of  the  most  sophis- 
ticated kind  as  represented  by  the  Hotel  Titchfield. 

In  all  the  voyage,  which  consumed  perhaps  an 
hour  and  a  half,  we  saw  not  a  soul  save  the  returning 
raftsman.  Never  was  there  a  house  visible  until  we 
came  to  the  final  lower  reaches,  where  the  plain 
opened  up  to  the  sea  admitting  of  banana  culture, 
cocoa,  pimento,  and  such-like  growths. 

Here  Charles  Roberts  announced  that  it  was 
time  to  put  in,  and  deftly  quenched  our  prow  in  the 
slushy  sand.  Thence  one  picked  one's  way  over 
moist  rocks  and  gravel  to  the  rudiments  of  a  path, 
accompanied  and  assisted  by  said  Charles,  who  said 
he  would  walk  down  the  road  "a  piece"  with  us  in 
hope  that  the  carriage  would  have  brought  down 
his  little  son  to  help  tow  the  raft  back  upstream. 

And  behold  it  was  even  so.  For  when  at  last  the 
belated  horses  appeared,  there  crouched  in  the  stern- 
sheets  a  miniature  Charles  Roberts,  grinning  from 
ear  to  ear. 


302  SAILING  SOUTH 

We  were  to  go  next  day.  It  was  a  matter  of  get- 
ting up  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  wherefore  we 
left  word  to  be  summoned  by  the  watchman.  The 
night  being  hot  and  the  upper  chamber  where  we 
dwelt  stifling,  we  boldly  slept  with  the  door  wide 
open. 

At  what  must  have  been  the  appointed  hour  I 
heard  a  stealthy  step  which  approached  our  door, 
and  then,  finding  it  open,  paused  perplexed.  It  was 
the  dusky  guardian  of  our  sleeping  hours,  and  I 
heard  him  mutter  tentatively,  "Nobuddy  hyah?" 

I  called  that  I  was  there  —  what  was  up? 

"Oh,  yassah!  Ah  come  for  to  make  a  call!" 

In  other  words,  it  was  time  to  get  up,  and  time  to 
go,  rather  than  a  mere  social  event.  So  out  of  bed, 
into  clothes,  down  to  the  station  —  and  back  to 
Kingston,  through  thirty  long  and  smoky  tunnels 
as  interludes  in  a  glorious  mountain  landscape. 

That  railroad  ride  over  the  mountains  between 
Kingston  and  the  northern  ports  is  not  altogether  to 
be  recommended.  It  cannot  be  a  journey  of  much 
more  than  sixty  miles,  but  it  requires  something  like 
five  hours,  and  a  goodly  part  of  the  road  lies  through 
tunnels  as  hot  and  stifling  as  a  fiery  furnace.  One 
recalls  also  Mark  Twain's  description  of  the  ride 
along  the  coast  near  Genoa  —  "Like  riding  through 
a  flute  and  looking  out  of  the  holes."  Yet  it  must  be 


RAFTING  IN  JAMAICA  303 

admitted  that  the  view  through  the  holes  is  invari- 
ably fascinating  and  the  air  of  the  altitudes  at 
which  most  of  the  tunnels  occur  is  more  agreeable  in 
temperature  than  that  of  the  flat  and  uninspiring 
stretch  that  leads  you  at  last  into  Kingston.  No 
one,  surely,  ever  takes  the  railroad  across  who  can 
make  the  transit  by  motor. 

Katrina  insists  that  if  she  were  to  choose  between 
Jamaica  and  Porto  Rico,  she  would  unhesitatingly 
prefer  the  latter  as  better  in  climate  and  not  inferior 
in  scenery.  On  the  whole  I  incline  to  concur,  al- 
though it  is  with  a  reluctant  accord.  Porto  Rico 
certainly  has  the  less  trying  heat  —  but  of  the 
scenery  I  am  more  doubtful.  That  of  Jamaica  is 
hard  to  excel.  Each  to  his  taste  —  and  much  will 
depend  upon  one's  power  to  support  a  degree  of  heat 
consistent  with  being  very  nearly  in  the  sun's 
directest  rays.  Those  of  us  gifted  with  the  char- 
acteristics of  the  salamander  will  probably  reverse 
our  family  judgment.  Meantime,  speaking  in  gen- 
eral, like  Kipling's  "Tramp  Royal,"  I  have  liked 
them  all. 

THE  END 


fitocrtfibe 

CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


